


After Ever: Accidentally in a Dark Fairytale

by LucyCrewe11 (Raphaela_Crowley)



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Comedy, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, No Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 66,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25474678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/LucyCrewe11
Summary: When Susan Pevensie buys a strange box containing two rings, a yellow one and a green one, from none other than Andrew Ketterley, she finds herself sucked into another world where she is in the centre of a real-life dark fairytale.
Relationships: Caspian/Ramandu's Daughter | Liliandil, Peter Pevensie/Susan Pevensie
Kudos: 4





	1. Susan Through the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Written May and June of 2010

Susan Pevensie's new house was just shy of being on the corner of one of the narrowest, busiest streets in London. Directly on the bend, across the street, a few inches away from being parallel to the house, was a round-walled, dimly lit-shop.

She and her parents had just moved from a narrow house in a row of houses packed close-in that they were-until now-sharing with Uncle Harold and Aunt Alberta. Susan was glad enough to be leaving them behind.

Now Uncle Harold was not so bad a person to deal with; but he was ruled entirely by his wife who was a penny-pincher and a vegetarian, and a new-age natural medicine taker. This in itself might not have been so terrible if Alberta had been the sort of woman who kept her opinions to herself and fancied that everybody else could live as they pleased. However, she was nothing of the kind. Her word was the law and the law was her word. And since they were all living in the house she-well, technically her husband-paid taxes on, they had to abide by her.

It was largely in Susan's nature to admire-and even to love-good, practical persons; for she herself was very sensible and fond of order. Alberta's way of order however was not nearly so sensible as one might presume. By age six, Susan was so tired of the frozen apricot preserves that her aunt insisted she eat, claiming they would help her avoid hemorrhoids later in life, that she almost thought, even in her childish good sense, that hemorrhoids couldn't be as bad as everyone claimed.

What was worse was that if there was any secret to be fleshed out of her, Susan knew Alberta would track it down like a blood-hound. She could keep nothing neatly put away in her tidy little bedroom (which was always on the cool side because Alberta was big on leaving windows open) in a calm mind since she knew her aunt was going to go poking through her belongings the moment she went out. Needless to say, this made for a very uncomfortable childhood.

Harold and Alberta had no children. Or at least, they had no children _currently_. Their only child, a son, had disappeared as an infant from his crib. It was so sudden and unexpected that nearly everyone had fallen all over themselves trying to figure out what exactly had happened to the boy. They never did, though. His name had been-unfortunately-Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he was much too young for anyone to know whether or not he was to be a blighter who almost deserved it.

Anyway, now that Susan was fifteen, her parents had managed to save up enough so that they could both pay back the money Harold-thanks to Alberta's greedy bidding-insisted they owed them and could afford their own home-at last. Although it had been a very nasty affair having Mr. Pevensie fighting in the second world war-especially for Susan and Helen who had suffered tremendously because he had been reported missing twice during the time of the great fighting-it cannot be said that his army pension was not a big part of the reason this was so.

As soon as Susan saw the house for the first time, she felt her sprits lift. It was a neat, white, medium-sized place with two-floors for living in and an attic for storing things. If she had been a very different sort of girl, or perhaps been a mite younger, she might have been curious about what was stored up there since they'd been told that there were things left from other families who'd lived in that house before them; and it was a very old house in spite of being so well-maintained. As it was, she was only faintly amused by the notion, much more keen on the fact that she would have a new bedroom which could be relatively private and a good deal larger than her old one.

This was, in fact, the first thing she went to inspect when she came over with a box of odds and ends, beginning to move a few personal items over.

The room had four square walls, two closets (one a small cupboard-like opening and the other a graciously-sized walk-in), and a sweet-looking bay window with the nicest oak-wood window-seat you can imagine under it. It would have been about seven times more comfortable in addition to being so pleasant to look at if one thought of adding cushions or at least a pillow. Her bed was brass-framed and although there wasn't a mattress there yet, she felt she could rightly assume it would be a good deal wider than the lumpy hand-me-down twin-sized bed she'd been sleeping on in Aunt Alberta's home.

How perfectly lovely this is all going to be, Susan thought, smiling as she placed the box down and went to take a peek at the other rooms.

There were two living rooms, one which would likely become the parlor for when they had guests for tea; and two bathrooms; and four hallways with space for framed photographs to be hung up; and even a spare room that would make a splendid study for Mr. Pevensie.

Looking out from a window in one of the still-bare living rooms, Susan could see the street below. This pleased her because she enjoyed watching people and wondering about where they were going. There had rarely been anyone interesting to watch where she'd lived before; and not even so much as a dull, fat milkman's doings to ponder over when she had spent a month in the country during the children's evacuation. Here, though, it was different. She could see rich ladies with positively scrumptious visiting hats and coats, as well as children playing with each other and cars going passed, and a few vendors, too.

Here a seemingly unimportant detail took place. Without it, however, there is the chance that this story might have not been worth telling. Susan happened to lean a bit closer to the window and she caught sight of the shop. It may sound pointless, but she would remember it later and that is how the adventures began.

Over the next few days there was a lot of packing and unpacking and moving things, and setting furniture and pictures and books and shelves and decorative tea-sets into their proper places. After all this, Susan was too tired to think of much besides supper, a glass of warm milk, and bed. But finally they were all settled in. And as it was late summer and the term at her boarding school had not yet been started, Susan was left with ample leisure time save for visits and visiting, and the occasional trips down to the seashore for swimming-of which there were very few since it was a wet August that year.

On one of these rainy days, there was a break in the clouds that seemed as though it would last for a couple of hours at least. And so she happened to go out to run an errand for her mother, thinking there was no chance of getting wet, when, quite suddenly, on the way back, the sky darkened and raindrops feel so quickly she could barely see through them.

Susan was nearly to the house but she was soaked and chilled to the bone, thinking that if she should get any colder or wetter she might catch something. So she did what felt at the moment to be the most sensible thing. In reality it turned out to be the _least_ sensible thing she had ever done in her whole life, but it is lucky that she did it anyway. She ducked into the shop she remembered seeing from the window. All but blinded by bullet-like rain, she thought she was very fortunate indeed to have found the door-handle.

As she stepped inside, closing the door behind her, Susan inhaled deeply and, wiping her damp brows and eyelashes on the back of her hand, started to look around.

The lighting was rummy, made by the little, dirty sort of lamps that cast awkward shadows on the walls. Because of this, she couldn't tell what colour the paint was (it may have been black or else dark gray), but she could see-clearly enough-a few rows of shelves with books messily thrown on them. A few were neatened out and dusted, but looking at them one got the feeling they were going to get dirty again by the time the others were cleaned. Some books had strong copper and gold spines (she assumed these were very expensive and tried to steer clear of them lest she knock one from its poorly kept-up place and end up paying the price); many others looked borderline ratty with strings dangling from their beat-up, torn sides.

It was not only a bookshop, Susan soon realized. There were many other things there, too. Boxes of what must have been old china, piles of different fabrics, and the most peculiar-looking stuffed owls you ever saw were heaped about any which way, only leaving enough room for a path that was little more than a tight rope or a balance-beam's worth of space when all was said and done.

Looking back over her shoulder, trying to make out the last glimpses of the natural gray cloudy-day-light before going further into the shop and losing it altogether, Susan could see the backwards inscription on the foggy window. Written in deep, red and green Edwardian-script letters were the words: _Ketterley Palace_.

Palace indeed! Thought Susan, a little primly.

She did have some excuse for thinking this. Her feet ached and she was cold all over, except for her face which felt hot and flushed. The last thing she wanted was to walk such a narrow path when any good, normal shop that wanted to keep itself in business would have made it wider or at least better lit so that their costumers could see where they were stepping.

When she thought she would jolly well give up and wait by the door until the rain stopped, never-minding whatever was back here, she came to a counter. It was relatively clean, which made the whole ordeal less alarming, and she nearly felt like laughing at herself for being so up-tight and fussy. Behind it, whatever sort of things that could be put in jars were stacked on a high shelf and there were a few boxes of peppermint candy just like any normal store might carry. One of them was open on the counter as a display, showing the pretty white, red, and green stripes-a lovely contrast to the rest of the gloomy place.

At first there didn't seem to be anyone there managing the shop. Susan thought this very poor planning, but figured that they simply must not get much business anyway, so they might be in the back (she could see a dark purple curtain from where she stood) smoking pipes or having their tea early; whoever they were. The Ketterleys, she of course presumed.

While there was a polished golden service-bell hanging from a small ebony arch, Susan didn't think it would be a very good idea to ring it. She didn't plan on buying anything. Feeling foolish, she wished she had stayed by the door after all. What really had been the point of coming all this way?

Before she could turn around and head for the door to check if it was still raining, a very tall, very thin, man with long white fingers appeared behind the counter, rubbing his hands together so that his knuckles cracked.

Coming from the average person, perhaps such a gesture is not all that shocking, but from a man with so long a face and a wild head of busy fleece-white hair, his eyes glinting so intensely, it was unnerving.

"Hallo," said the man.

"Are you the, uh, K-k-ketterley?" stammered Susan, feeling a bit angry with herself for stuttering like that. She had been rather famous (or infamous) as a young child for being a fluent speaker; she did not wish to tarnish that reputation now-it didn't matter that there wasn't anybody much around to see it.

"Andrew Ketterley at your service, my lady." He gave a little bow as though she was a grand queen rather than a pathetic, wet-haired, dripping figure standing shivering anxiously in his shop.

Perhaps he's not truly mad at all, thought Susan, taking in his lucid tone and noticing that his eyes seemed to be shinning a very little bit less now. And that was comforting in itself.

"What can I help you with?" he asked.

"Well," said Susan, wanting to tell him that she hadn't been looking for anything in particular aside from a dry place to wait-out the rain, "I wasn't really-"

She hadn't finished when he cut in with, "Ah, don't tell me, you're looking for something very rare, right? Something only the Ketterley Palace specializes in."

Susan hadn't thought they specialized in anything, but she understood that it mightn't be good manners to say so. It seemed as though she would have to purchase something after all.

Off to the side, placed harmlessly atop of a pile of old partly-rusted metal trunks that probably stored naught but junk, there was a little box of a queer, silvery colour, its wooden top painted a dull black. It was smaller than a typical jewelry box, though not by much.

Bending down slightly, the remainder of the rain-water in her damp hair making clinking noises as they dripped down onto the metal trunks, she lifted up the box.

"What's this, Mr. Ketterley?"

Andrew rubbed his hands together again and he licked the side of his lips. "What, erm, excellent…taste you have! Of course you would pick only the best, Miss."

"Yes, but what _is_ it?"

"It's very…" -Mr. Ketterly took the box from her and examined it himself as if for the first time- "…rare…comes all the way from…uh…many ancient civilizations…passed down through…um…many…centuries…"

Susan was not impressed; she could tell he was making all this up on the spot. She did not think very highly of him for lying to make a quick pound. Yet, she hadn't thought very highly of him even from the first, so there was no real loss there.

"Which ones?" she challenged, priding herself on her knowledge, although she ought to have remembered that she was no good at schoolwork, having all but failed her last history test.

Andrew's face went white as salt and he blurted, "China! No, it's actually also Egyptian and Babylonian-and Greek! And, best of all, Atlantean-as in from the lost island of Atlantis! And…" his lower lip curled slightly, a sweat bead rolling down the side of his pale face, "…did I say Chinese?"

Rolling her eyes, she asked if it was supposed to be a jewelry box.

He pretend-scoffed, "Mere jewelry box, indeed! My dear young lady, don't mock me! It's clearly a very rare…" –here he paused and glanced down at the box, opening the lid; inside there was a golden chain which looked like fake gold- "…it's a jewelry box," he gave in rather glumly, his shoulders slumping.

Peering over the counter, Susan got a better look at the chain. It wasn't thick or thin, somewhere in-between, and it had two interlocking rings-one green and the other yellow-strung on it as a sort of pendant.

Andrew Ketterley brightened up again and said, "It's a fair price at a simple twenty pounds…"

Susan's nose wrinkled. Was he serious?

"Okay, a tenner," he caved.

She hesitated.

He hadn't sold a blasted thing all week! He was nearly desperate. "Five pounds! A sale price! Today only! That's my final offer."

_I must have gone mad…_ Susan nodded and took five pounds out of her coat pocket, handing them to Mr. Ketterley.

The pounding sound she'd been hearing on the roof from the rain outside ceased and she quickly tucked the box under her arm and, after saying a quick good-bye to Andrew for the sake of politeness, made her way back to the front door. She could dash across the street and go home now.

"Andrew!" screamed a voice from behind the curtain after Susan had gone. "You better not have been selling off some of your old rubbish to some unwitting youngster!"

"Of course not, Letitia, my dear," he called back. "Don't fuss, that's a good gel now. I've made a perfectly honest sale." He straightened out his collar, which was quite ugly and very stiff. "That's the sort of fellow I am, dear sister."

"Andrew," the voice came again, tersely, a strong warning-tone. "I tell you plainly, my brother, that if I have to deal with another angry parent on your behalf, you shan't get off so easy this time!"

Meanwhile, Susan arrived home just in time for tea and things went on as they always did.

At six of the clock she sat down with an improving book; at seven she kissed her parents goodnight and went upstairs to bathe and dress for bed; by eight, her teeth were brushed and she was laying out her clothing for the next day, smoothing out the creases so they wouldn't wrinkle; and at about quarter-passed eight she remembered the box she had bought and examined it more closely.

She did not believe all that rot Mr. Ketterley had tried to tell her about it being from China or where ever, but she certainly saw now that she had taken it somewhat for granted that it wasn't your normal style of processed, made-by-the-bulk sort of box.

Opening the lid, she fingered the chain and studied the rings. For a moment she fancied she felt a jolt of electricity rush through her veins as she ran the tips of her fingers over the yellow ring, but the feeling passed. Feeling a little sleepy, tired from a long day and from getting caught in the rain, she put the chain away, leaving the box open on her night-stand.

About twenty minutes before midnight, Susan awoke suddenly and without explanation. This was strange, for normally she was a much heavier sleeper, only waking if she was roused by a loud noise or a parched throat. There was a strange noise in the room, she noticed, blinking in the darkness, wondering if she really was awake after all and this still vision was not only a dream; but it was a very light sound-a faint humming.

Sitting up and climbing out of bed, Susan groped about for the spare candle, candle-holder, and box of matches she always kept handy in case of an emergency. This wasn't an emergency, exactly, but something was clearly amiss.

The humming came again, seeming a little bit louder when she stood next to the open box. Glancing down, she saw the dim shapes of the interlocked rings on the chain.

But surely, she thought to herself, shaking her head as she lit the candle, it's not the rings making that sound-that's impossible. Quite impossible.

Her hands shaking, though she hadn't the foggiest idea why, Susan gripped the little chain and fastened the clasp round her neck. The humming noise, however much she denied it, really must have been coming from the rings after all because no longer could the humming sound be heard next to the box. Now the light, almost-musical, whisper was where ever she happened to walk in the room.

But, then, that was almost comforting compared to the sound she heard next; a thump from the ceiling above her. Now, she was on the second floor, so logic told her that it had to have come from the attic. She thought of rousing her parents, especially as the sound came again, not unlike the din of heavy foot-falls when they are chasing something-or some _one_ -but her practicality told her that a burglar probably wasn't going to be able to break in through the attic. In all likelihood, it probably _was_ one of her parents up there. Maybe there had been a leak or some other problem. Or, though she thought it sounded much too loud for that, it was only a mouse. Could be a stampede of mice, perhaps.

I'll just go and make sure everything's all right, she thought as she pulled her dressing-gown around herself and lifted the candle-holder up, wandering out of the room, into the hallway.

There was the thud of the footsteps again; followed by what sounded not unlike a wolf's howl. A whispering hum ensued. This time it came, not only from the rings around her neck, but also from somewhere else she couldn't trace. It was almost like a spoken language; a strange, bitter-sweet conversation or song-a calling.

Susan could hear her heart beating like a drum as she crept up the attic stairs. What was going on?

"Hello?" she tried, blinking as she moved a low-hanging cobweb out of her way. "Is somebody up here? Mum? Father?"

The thumping had stopped and the howling lingered now only as the late-night wind passing by the old rickety attic windows. The humming, however, remained.

Glancing down at the rings hanging just passed the breast-line of her night-dress, she saw-or thought she saw-two glowing circlets of gold and emerald. Hastily she reassured herself that it was only the candlelight reflecting off of the metal, nothing more.

"Achoo!" Susan sneezed, accidentally jolting the candle she carried and causing some hot tallow to fall.

The tallow dripped into one of her slippers and landed on her toes. "Ouch!" She placed the candle-holder down and crouched to wipe the burning tallow off of the ends of her feet before it could do any permanent damage.

Replacing her slipper and standing up straight again, she decided she would go back downstairs. Only the shadows had somehow changed and suddenly-even with the help of the stub's worth of candle she had left-she wasn't so sure of the way.

Funny, she hadn't thought she'd wandered that far inwards. This was all very peculiar.

The side of her arm banged against a low shelf, knocking one of two matching objects-evidently both made of glass-onto the floor where it shattered into a dozen or so pieces at best. Judging by its mate, it had been the exact size and shape of an old-fashioned dancing slipper.

"Oh, do get on!" murmured Susan to herself, taking no note of the broken glass slipper, wanting nothing more than to be out of the dark attic and back in her warm, safe bedroom.

If only she could be sure of the way out! If she didn't know any better, she could have sworn the room was moving round on her and playing tricks on her mind.

Finally she found herself face-to-face with what might have been either a very dirty curtain or a moth-eaten old linen sheet. Pulling it away to see what was behind it, she got a shock. In the bad lighting she imagined she saw another girl her own size standing there gaping at her; but it was only her reflection. She was standing in front of a large wardrobe made of apple-wood, the sort that has a looking-glass on the door.

The candle had gone out, leaving a little curling line of smoke where there had previously been a flickering flame. Strangely enough, there was still a little bit of light. This light was coming from the rings, there was no getting around it this time.

Wide-eyed, Susan gazed in disbelief as the circular light fell upon the looking-glass, casting silvery ripples all over it. Blinking rapidly, she found these cleared into little flashes of waving green swirls before fading into what would have looked almost like a cinema picture if it had been less real-looking and more grainy in nature.

In the looking-glass, she could now see a bedroom similar to her own, only much larger and grander. Where her closet would have been, were two cherry-wood-lined, glass-front French doors leading to what might have been a balcony, and in her own room there would not have been patterns of bright cream-and-gold along the upper boarders of the wall; nor would her writing desk and night-stand be made of deep, dark reddish-brown mahogany in-laid with silver. Also, being the practical person she was, Susan noticed that there was something distinctively unfeminine about the room. It wasn't as untidy as your average male's bedroom is likely to be, but it showed signs of not being exactly up to par. Most note-worthily, there was a nightshift hung sloppily over one chair and a sword in a silver-and-copper scabbard was laid across the seat of it.

Judging by the light in that looking-glass-room, it was early morning, perhaps between three and six AM. In Susan's attic, where she stood captivated, it was only just midnight. She became well-aware of this because she could hear the grandfather-clock two floors down striking twelve.

Peering into the looking-glass, she could see something was happening. There was a person walking about in the room. Clearly, he had been, up till now, stationed on the side of the room the angles of the wardrobe would not currently allow her to see, but he moved into the middle of it and she could see him quite well at the moment. He was a tall, blonde chap with a serious face that looked like it just might be inclined to genuine laughter if properly provoked, and he appeared to be about her own age, maybe a year or so older.

She could see, early though it was on his side of the looking-glass, that he was already dressed and ready to start the day. His clothing looked like something a prince in the middle-ages would have worn; a brown leather jerkin over a thin black tunic and dark-coloured tights.

The humming of the rings had becoming much louder (almost unbearably so), but it had happened so gradually that she hadn't noticed. As if they were magnets, they seemed to be pulling her closer and closer to the looking-glass until she was all but completely pressed-up against it.

For a second she was numb head to toe; and then she was falling, falling right into the mirror itself as though it were an open window.

Since she was not a clumsy person by nature (though, understandably, this may be a little hard to believe considering she had been having more accidents than usual on the day this story starts), the over-all sensation of tumbling head-first into the looking-glass, into another world, was very surreal.

More awkward still was the moment she found herself looking up at the blonde medieval boy who stood above her, clearly confused, his brow crinkled and his eyes straying occasionally to the sword on the chair.

"Hullo," he said cautiously.

"Hi," Susan muttered, her tone a mite too snappish, standing up and rubbing her head which she was just realizing she'd hit pretty hard while falling in.

"I don't mean to be rude, uh, Lady, but what _are_ you doing in my bed-chamber?"

"I don't know." Susan's eyes shifted away from him, darting all around the room. Her head felt like it was swimming-and drowning. "This is a dream I'm having, I think."

"Righty then." His brow lowered itself. "Am I completely loosing it, or did you just come out of my mirror?"

Mirror? Susan glanced over her shoulder and saw a mirror the same size and shape as the one in her attic, except it wasn't attached to a wardrobe.

"What's this?" He noticed the rings hanging like pendants from the chain around her neck.

"They're mine," Susan told him tersely, suddenly very protective of the contents dangling from the cheep chain from the box she hadn't wanted to buy in the first place.

"I think I've seen something like that before, is all."

"That's interesting," she replied, not sounding as if she actually did think it interesting in the least.

"Are you a witch?" his eyes strayed to the sword again.

"Well!" she huffed, folding her arms across her chest, clearly insulted.

"Well what?" he snapped. "One can never be too sure, and you _did_ just appear here out of no-where."

"Don't be such a wet-blanket!" Susan growled, glaring at him. "I'm no witch, I simply fell into this chamber of yours by mistake in this remarkably vivid dream, and I've hit my head, so I think I shall be leaving at once."

"Leaving?" he asked. "But where are you going?"

"I suppose," she mulled, more to herself than to the boy, "I ought to go back the way I came-through the looking-glass. That's how it works in these things, isn't it?"

"I really couldn't say." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, it's been lovely meeting you," she sighed hurriedly, not sounding as if she meant it; "but I'll be going home and waking up presently, so goodbye."

"Uh…" He tried to think of a way to tell her that there didn't seem to be much chance of his mirror-which looked very like an ordinary mirror at the moment-taking her anywhere, but she didn't seem to be paying attention to him.

The rings were no longer glowing in spite of the fact that they still had a regal shininess about them, and Susan saw that nothing much was happening as she rapped her knuckles on the silver of the mirror. Dash it! Of course when she woke up it likely wouldn't matter where she was, as she would be back in her bedroom at any rate, but she felt she would much rather wait to waken in the attic than with this strange boy who dressed like Shakespeare or something and thought she was a witch. Didn't they burn witches in the middle-ages?

"Oh," said Susan presently, "I think I understand now; I was jolted when I came through. All I need, I believe, is a jolt from over here to get back."

"Yes, that makes sense." There was a faint twinge of sarcasm in the boy's voice, but she decided to ignore it.

"How am I to make a proper jolt?"

"I don't know."

"I may need your help, uh…" Susan realized she hadn't gotten his name.

"Peter," he told her. "High King Peter."

She blinked uncomprehendingly. "Right…Well, I'm Susan Pevensie, and I need you to do me a quick favor."

"What?"

"On the count of three, at my signal, I want you to push me into the mirror so I can go through."

"I really don't think…"

"Good for you," said Susan shortly. "It only gives you misguided delusions of grandeur." _High King indeed!_

"Well, I suppose, if you insist…" Peter still didn't think it was a very good idea, but he wasn't used to strong-willed ladies ordering him about. As a high king, he was usually the one who had the upper hand in most things.

"Fine then," said Susan. "One, two, three."

At her signal, Peter reached out and shoved her at the mirror.

As she really might have expected if she'd ever bothered to nurture a decent imagination, getting out wasn't so simple as she fancied it would be, and she found herself, instead, slamming hard into the metal and bumping her nose.

"Ow!"

Retaliating without much thought, she spun around and gave Peter two quick shoves, scowling at him.

"Will you stop shoving!" He demanded, scowling right back at her.

"That didn't work," grumped Susan, rubbing her nose.

"No kidding," he snapped. "Hang it all, Susan Pevensie, I've known you for less than five minutes and I already think you will be the death of me."

"You see, this really isn't the time-" she began, sounding rather like a mother starting a lecture for an errant child.

"Oh, shut up," said Peter. "And if you don't mind, I'd really like to have a look at those rings, Susan Pevensie-or whoever you really are."

"I brought them fair and square, thank you very much, and so I'm not just handing them over to some delusional boy who thinks he's royalty, even if this is only a dream."

"I don't _think_ I'm royalty," he huffed, getting fed up, "I am. And as such I order you to hand them over."

"Well, you aren't the bloody King of England-that's where I come from-so I needn't do anything you say."

"This isn't England-where ever that is-and I am the high king of Narnia, so I have authority here."

"This is _my_ dream, you can't boss me around! What can you do to me?"

"I can have you beheaded," he pointed out, half-joking. "But that seems a bit extreme."

"Lovely."

"Come on, Susan," he said, his voice softer now. "I don't mean you any harm, and I see we've gotten off on the wrong foot-what with you shoving me and me calling you a witch; I take it back now-do make it Pax."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You can't _know_ , if you don't already," Peter said quietly, "but you _can_ believe-or not."

"I'll tell you where I got the rings and explain myself," she said levelly, "seeing as I did come barging into your bed-chamber like this, though I didn't mean to, but I'm not handing over the rings so fast."

"Fair enough," Peter gave in, moving his sword off of the chair and sitting down. "For now."

Sitting down on the side of his bed, next to the chair, Susan told him her story about moving into a new house and buying the rings from that strange Ketterley fellow; but all the while she seemed to be stressing her belief that this had to be a dream and that soon she would wake up and that he mustn't think her rude if she did so suddenly and disappeared.

"But I guess," Susan thought aloud, her tone sounding oddly relieved, "if you're here with me, you're just a sort of thing in my dream, then, and you'll just disappear, too; whenever I wake up."


	2. A Tale of two Foundlings

"That's quite a story," said Peter when Susan had finished her account of what brought her through his mirror, into his world and his kingdom-which he evidently called Narnia.

"Yes, well, I suppose it is," she sighed diplomatically, wondering why she hadn't woken up yet. Actually, she hadn't thought she'd make it through the whole story before her eyes would snap open and she would find herself back in her bedroom; but, regardless, she was still here in this otherworld for now.

"I'll be going down to breakfast soon, are you hungry?" Peter asked, standing up.

Susan hadn't thought one _could_ be hungry in a dream, but the fact that her stomach growled at the word 'breakfast' was undeniable.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," he laughed, trying to think of what to do about getting some clothes for her. He couldn't allow her to roam round the castle in what was obviously some sort of sleeping-garment, but where was he supposed to get women's clothes from at such short notice? She probably wasn't going to be very agreeable if he suggested she borrow one of his tunics.

Finally inspiration struck and, leaving the chamber, he told her to wait; that he would be right back.

Susan waited semi-patiently, thinking how different the room looked when one was actually in it instead of staring at it through a looking-glass. More angles of it were visible; and she was certain now if she hadn't been before that the French doors did in fact lead out to a balcony just as she'd assumed they would.

After a few minutes, Peter returned, carrying a forest-green dress and a gray cloak in a small bundle held together by a belt of brown leather with a golden clasp. "Here you go." He placed the items down beside her.

"What's this?" Susan blinked down at the dress as if she hadn't the foggiest idea what she was supposed to do with it.

"It's an old dress from the wardrobe of the late Queen Helen-she was my mother," he explained; "you'll have to make do with it until we can find you something more suitable. It was either that or something of _mine_ , you see."

"Thank you," she said, grateful not to have to wear boy's clothes. "It's nice."

It was a nice dress, to be exact, but it still had that medieval style about it just like Peter's clothes did, making her feel as though she was going to be in a play or a masque.

Of course, she thought to herself, this was only to be expected; they wouldn't keep sensible, modern clothes in a place like this. Perhaps, in my dream, I've gone back in time as well.

"I'll leave you alone to change and then I can show you where the Cair Paravel dinning hall is."

"What's Cair Paravel?" She wanted to know.

"You really _are_ from another world, aren't you?" he marveled, blinking at her with a dazed expression for a moment. "I thought everyone knew it was the name of Narnia's capital court and of the castle in general. Even the visitors we had from northern Ettinsmoor knew that."

"I think the rules are different where I come from."

"I'm starting to see that."

"I'm glad, but it's no matter because-"

"Yes, yes, I know," said Peter, rolling his eyes, "when you wake up everything will be back to normal. By the Lion, Susan, you _are_ a lady of one idea! Are you always like this?"

"I don't know; I don't usually remember my dreams when I wake up-except occasionally." She said this nonchalantly, while in her mind thinking, 'Did he just insult me again, or was I imagining it?'

"All right, see you in a bit." He left and closed the door behind him.

Susan couldn't help thinking that this was all very decent of him, and she liked him a good deal more than she had at first, although she didn't like the way he still glanced at the rings hanging from her neck from time to time. What _was_ his obsession with getting them? She hadn't cared a fig for them back home, back in the real world, but now it was the principal of the matter that made her refuse him so stubbornly. They were _her_ rings and she was wary of how keen he seemed to be about snatching them away. Perhaps she could trust him; he jolly well might be inclined to give them back to her after examining them, however, she wasn't willing to test out that theory-not just yet.

And another thing, she thought as she slipped the green dress over her head, what exactly did he mean when he said, 'by the Lion'? She hoped feverishly that there weren't an awful lot of lions in Narnia; she would feel rather nervous about meeting a Lion-even in a dream.

In the meantime, waiting for Susan to get dressed, High King Peter thought he had better find the Princess Lucy and explain to her who their unexpected other-worldly guest was. After all, she was going to see her at breakfast and even a girl as easy-going as Lucy was certain to notice the extra place-settings if nothing else.

Now, regarding Lucy, a few things need to be explained. She was not really the sister of the high king by blood-relation, but he loved her as dearly as if she were. She was actually a foundling he had stumbled across in the western woods a few years back.

It had been a cold day directly between late winter and early spring when Peter-a young crown prince at the time-happened to be away from Cair Paravel, nearer to the place in that world called The Lantern Waste than to the Eastern Sea; and he spotted something at the edge of a thawing-still partially frozen-river. It was a sopping-wet fur coat; small in size, as though made for a little girl. Next to it, was a little cap of red velvet that was also child-sized and soaked through-and-through.

Fingering the fur coat and staring out at the water with wide, frightened eyes, Peter had been wondering what happened to the poor lass who'd owned these things, when suddenly a little voice said, "You seen my coat?"

He spun around and saw that a little girl with blue eyes and fair, reddish-brown hair stood at his side, wet and shivering, after clamoring up from the edges of the bank. Clearly, she had almost drowned.

By her own tale, the little bits of it that could be gotten out of her, a large wolf had chased her to the water where she fell in, but a great golden Lion with a bright, flowing mane had come and scared it away. They could get nothing else out of her besides that; she said didn't remember. The poor thing didn't even seem to know how she had gotten out of the river after nearly drowning. All she could recall was seeing Peter there holding her coat and cap-two things that she somehow knew were hers, but didn't remember where she'd gotten them from.

She couldn't remember her name, so Peter christened her 'Lucy'. The other courtiers had wanted to take Lucy away from him so they could place her in an orphanage, but she'd become so attached to Peter that she grabbed onto his legs and refused to budge no matter how hard the ladies and the fauns and the dwarfs of the court tugged at her. Finally the boy who would grow up to be their high king put his hand on her head and told everybody to leave her be.

It was decided in the end that until somebody came looking for their missing child and claimed her, she would have to stay with Peter. No one in the whole of the Lantern Waste or any of the surrounding areas knew of any families who had lost a child; so Lucy went with Peter-and his father, who was still alive at the time-back to Cair Paravel. And, as fate would have it, no one ever came looking for her _there_ , either.

As the years passed, she became more and more dear to the crown prince-and even to his father before a plague came through Narnia and took the good king away to his grave-so that she was given the title of princess. Nobody seemed to care that she had not been of royal-birth. Besides, she might have been anyone really. They had no proof that she was some noble's child, but they didn't have any proof that she _wasn't_ either.

So now, High King Peter sent for the little princess to be called to him.

"Good Morning, Peter," said Lucy cheerfully (she was nine years old now), when she arrived in the corridor.

He beamed at her. "Good morning, Lu."

"Is there a problem with breakfast?"

"Problem?" he said. "No, not a problem, but we are having a guest."

"It isn't that horrid Tisroc from Calormen again, is it?" She wrinkled her nose.

Peter couldn't help laughing at that. "No, it's a lady, I think."

"You _think_?"

"She's very peculiar," he admitted; "and at first I thought she might be a witch or some other faux-human creature we'd best feel for our hatchet about, but I don't think she is after all. She just seems…confused. She's come from another world."

"I don't think she's a witch," said Lucy in a surprisingly convinced voice.

"You haven't even met her," Peter pointed out.

"That's her peeking out of your bed-chamber door, isn't it?" Lucy motioned down the corridor.

Sure enough, there was the slim figure of a girl with a pretty, know-it-all sort of face and long dark hair peeking out of the door-way.

"Yes, that's Susan Pevensie."

"She seems nice," Lucy commented. "A bit boring, maybe, but nice."

Peter didn't think she looked 'boring' at all. The term he would have more readily employed was 'stuffy' or else, 'up tight'. She was too pretty-beautiful, even-to be boring to any male creature with a pulse. But of course the high king would have never said that aloud; it would have sounded terribly bias. What was more, it would have made him blush.

"Is she wearing Mum's old dress?" Even though she had never met Queen Helen (Peter had only met her as a baby) Lucy still thought of her as her own mother since she was Peter's.

Peter sighed, "Long story, Lu, don't ask."

"Hallo there," Lucy called over to Susan as she came all the way out.

"Hello," Susan greeted her, thinking the girl in the pink satin dress roughly the same style as her own but smaller seemed like a very sweet little thing.

"Susan, this is Princess Lucy, my foundling sister," Peter introduced them. "Lucy, this is Susan."

What a remarkable dream this really is turning out to be! thought Susan as the pair led her down the different elegant corridors towards the dinning hall, I may actually enjoy this after all.

The dinning hall had ceilings so high that you had to strain your neck to see the bright red and silver paintings and panels-and the blue and green designs that looked like they were supposed to represent grasslands and the sea. One thing that made Susan feel a bit uncomfortable was the constantly repeating symbol of what was most certainly a great Lion. Just looking at the image made her feel afraid; not afraid of being eaten, exactly, or torn to pieces, or any of the fears she would have expected to feel thinking of a great wild animal, but she was simply afraid of _him_.

Thankfully the rest of the room, the great silk-and-velvet tapestries and the lovely cherry-wood table (the longest, shiniest table she had ever seen), was there to distract her from her fears. Best of all were the great silver trays piled with all kinds of lovely food; some of which, because of the recent war, she had never gotten quite enough of.

There was butter and bunches of grapes, six different kinds of bread both toasted and not toasted, creams and milk and jars of jam, large muffins the size of a grown-man's fist, as well as endless eggs, sausages, and ham. This was all served with fine, strong tea-something Susan was very fond of-and the rims of the china cups they sipped from were solid gold.

I could get used to this, thought Susan, asking a most unusual-looking servant with legs like a that of a goat to pass the nearest jam jar, it'll be almost a pity never to have a meal quite like this one when I wake up and find myself at home again.

She spent the whole rest of the day waiting to wake up; and in the meantime learned an awful lot of things from Peter and the others at the castle-servants and courtiers. An archery instructor taught her how to hold a bow and how to string an arrow on it. She learned quickly and he said she had natural talent. Peter taught her to ride a horse; something she had only had the opportunity to try once or twice before in her life. In the end, thinking to repay all the kindness being shown to her, Susan wanted to teach Lucy to sew; but the princess hid in one of the endless secret chambers in the castle until their guest gave up the attempt.

Instead, she and little impish Lucy had a water-fight in the shallower parts of the sea-shore Cair Paravel was more or less directly located on shortly before sunset, splashing at each other and collecting little shells and pebbles until Peter called them inside, biting back a smile at the sight of them.

There was a feast that night, and Peter said that Susan was welcome to join in if she liked, not wanting her to feel left out. Never one to refuse an invitation to a fine high-class event, Susan agreed to come, but was wary of her green dress. Yes, it was very fine, but she'd sweated in it, gotten it a very little stained with white paint while at the horse-stable, and there was a thin piece of sea-weed clinging to the bottom of the skirt from her water-fight with Lucy. She couldn't imagine standing in front of a bunch of important people-real or not-in such a state.

But Peter was ahead of her and had gotten another of his mother's gowns, a pale cream-coloured silk one with long lacy cuffs, for her to borrow. It turned out to be a little big on her, but the seamstresses-who were very strange, willowy ladies (dryads)-were able to alter it slightly so that it fit better.

Surprisingly, it was Lucy who was to make the greatest discovery that night, rather than Susan.

Susan spent the whole time as she would at any other event, being merry and knowledgeable and charming to everybody without showing signs of stopping. As for Lucy, she was staying up semi-late for one of the very few times in her nine years of life, and, after losing interest in the main feast when the meal had been served and she'd said hello to those she knew and liked best, felt more inclined to wander the nearest antechamber for a bit, playing with a display rose she'd swiped from a vase on her way out.

She was sitting on the arm of a large cushioned chair, the rose lying limply in her lap at the moment, when she heard a low moan coming from the table at her right side.

"What's that?" she said to herself, getting up and squatting down by the edge of the table.

One might presume that she ought to have been able to see whatever it was at once, but there was a long white-and-yellow, gold-fringed table-cloth that fell right over the entire table right down to the tips of its legs.

"Hullo?" Lucy squinted and leaned closer.

She saw a shadow move ever so slightly behind the cloth. The shadow was too big to be a cat and for a moment she thought it might be a dog, but that didn't seem quite right, so she lifted the edge of the cloth and stuck her head underneath to get a better look.

There was a faint, raspy gasp and a figure a little bigger than she herself was tried to edge away from her, closer to the table's legs.

"It's…" -Lucy's eyes widened, taking in the figure for a moment before finishing her spoken thought- "…it's a boy."

A pair of somewhat unfocused brown eyes glanced up at her, seemed to register that she wasn't a threat, flashed briefly with annoyance, and then shut half-way.

"Were you hiding from _me_?" asked Lucy, crinkling her brow.

"No," groaned the boy sourly.

He looks very tired, thought Lucy, studying him more closely now. She was able to fully make out a pale face and dark hair, as he was no longer edging away from her.

"Why don't you come out of there?"

"Can't move all that way," he murmured.

"Why?"

He twisted his face into what was meant to be a scowl but looked more like a grimace. "It hurts too much."

"Oh, you're hurt?" Lucy reached in and gently tried to pull him out in spite of his grunts of disapproval and half-hearted attempts to shove her away.

"Where are you taking me?" he mumbled.

Helping him up to his feet, letting him lean on her so that he could stand, Lucy finally saw where his injury was. In addition to bruises on his face and a cut on his lower lip, he had a massive stomach-wound that, although his torn black and blue tunic covered part of it, looked very deep, bloody, and gory. Indeed, Lucy felt as though she wanted to be sick, yet she forced her way through it, thinking first to help him and then to feel unwell later.

Unsure of where to take him, she half-supported, half-dragged the boy to her own bed-chamber.

"You can rest here," she told him, helping the boy up into her bed and pulling a couple of blankets over his shivering figure. "I'll be right back."

He let out another restless moan.

"It's all right," Lucy said reassuringly, "you're safe now."

Not even five minutes later, she came back into the chamber, dragging a courtier faun called Tumnus behind her.

"Come quick," she had said, her eyes brimming with tears as she tugged on him, pulling him out of the feasting hall.

Briefly, she informed him that she'd made a friend who was badly hurt and she needed him to come and look at him since he knew more about medicine and wound-binding than she did. Why, it was this very faun who had countless times helped Peter with a sprained or dislocated arm when he fell from his horse, so surely he could get this poor boy set aright!

"Princess Lucy, just who is that?" whispered Tumnus when he saw the boy for himself.

"I don't know," said Lucy truthfully, shrugging her shoulders. "I've never seen him before tonight."

"Now then, boy," Tumnus said, pulling back the blankets to examine the wounds, "don't be afraid, you're among friends here; but do tell us who you are and where you've come from if you can."

"I…" he stammered wearily, taking deep, slow breaths, "…my name's Edmund."

"It's all right, Edmund," said Lucy, reaching over and touching his sweaty cheek lightly with the back of her hand; "Tumnus and I are looking after you."

Tumnus took things in hand after that. He removed Edmund's tunic and cleaned out his wound to avoid infection, then he bound it up the best he could and ordered Lucy to make sure there was plenty of water for the boy to drink so he could keep his system flushed, which would help if he'd accidentally contracted a fever.

When this was all taken care of, Tumnus was so tired that he went off to his own bed-chamber and immediately fell asleep, forgetting that he'd planned to tell the high king of his little sister's discovery.

Because of this, it was not until many hours later, when the feast was over and Peter had left Susan in a guest chamber she could use till they could find a way to get her back into her own world, that he happened to come and check on Lucy to be sure she was asleep.

There was someone in the bed, but that someone was a bit too big to be little Lucy, had short, boyish hair, and the covers were pulled up to his chin. Who _was_ that?

It was dark in the chamber, so it took a few moments, but Peter finally spotted a second lump in the bed next to the first one; this one being noticeably smaller and more Lucy-like in shape. Ah, there she was.

"Uh, Lucy?" he gently shook her arm.

"Hmm?" Lucy opened her eyes and sat up, rubbing them with the back of her left hand.

"Who's on the other size of your bed?" He arched a cautious brow over at the sleeping boy.

"Oh," yawned Lucy, waking up all the way now. "My new friend."

"Right…" said Peter, wondering if Susan's behavior was contagious as he was starting to think this must be a strange dream he was having.

"His name's Edmund," Lucy announced, staring at Peter with big, shinny, pleading eyes. "Can we keep him? Please? Pretty please?"


	3. Much ado about Something

It was a bright full moon and the night sky looked closer to dark grayish-blue than to its usual black. The stars were out, plenty of them, but they didn't seem to shine as distinctly, hidden by wispy clouds that had missed the moon entirely.

Of course, Edmund hadn't more than a couple of seconds to take this in; he knew he had to run. It was now or never. It didn't matter that there was snow on the hill he was trying to climb up; if he succeeded, he would hopefully find himself in a place where it was much warmer. All that mattered was keeping moving. If he stopped, he might as well lie down and die. If he were to give into his aching limbs, his sore, sore legs and curl up under a pine tree, he would fall into a frozen sleep and never wake again.

If I live through this, he thought wildly with chattering teeth, I am going to see that some decent roads get built around here some day; I wonder how _she_ will like that?

Then came the howling; a cry that echoed and crawled right up his spine, wrapping a cord of fear tightly around his heart. They were after him.

Run, run, run. He had to run. His legs felt so heavy, yet Edmund lifted them as speedily as he could. Those weary limbs carried him up the hill and then down the other side. Or, to be more exact, they carried him up it and then he sort of _fell_ down and rolled for a while, cutting his lower lip on a sharp stray pebble, before scrambling to his feet and forcing himself to keep going.

He could see them now, gaining on him. The whole pack- _her_ wolves.

I'll never escape, thought Edmund, his thoughts a whirling mess of icy madness. Of course, he was only thinking that because no one ever _had_ escaped them before.

The leader, the one his mistress called Maugrim, the captain, called out to the others in his beautifully dangerous voice, "Hurry!"

Nevertheless, he had to keep dashing through the snow. Until finally, there wasn't snow anymore, only slush-then mud, then warm soil. He'd lost a shoe a while back and the warmth of the sun-heated dirt, even at this hour of the night when it was cooler, felt so wonderful against his bare, previously numb, foot. It wasn't winter here. At long last, freedom. But would the wolves follow him here? Would they cross the line?

The howling came once again, and Edmund knew now-if he hadn't before-that they would think nothing of breaking through the border to catch him. He was one of theirs, even if he didn't really _want_ to be.

Suddenly something pounced on him, pinning his tired body to the ground.

"Be still," ordered Maugrim, baring his teeth; "or you'll never move again."

Edmund was quivering violently under the wolf's massive paws pressed against his weakened chest, but he was still as anything otherwise. Sweat dripped down his neck; he knew if he was further north it would have frozen in place and encased his skin. Here, any idiot could see the drops falling randomly into his tunic's collar and onto the ground.

Maugrim was slowly loosening his grip, expecting the runaway to realize he'd been captured and had no choice but to come back with them.

This was something that Edmund, however frightened and angry and cold and alone he felt, wasn't willing to do. He wasn't about to miss his only chance. It might be the end of him, but he'd have to live-or, more likely, die-with that. He couldn't go back…he just couldn't!

He reached for a nearby rock a little larger than his fist and tried to smack the wolf in the face with it, so as to stun the captain and make his get-away.

Unfortunately, this was as poor a plan as he could have possibly thought up, as his not moving was the only thing keeping Maugrim from attempting to rip his guts out. He may have stretched out his hand and grasped the rock, but the wicked creature did not wait to be hit with it. Maugrim's mind could work rather like that of a chess-player sometimes, which, needless to say, was part of what made him such a hard enemy to go up against; he knew Edmund's next move long before he could gather up enough pluck to go all the way through with it.

One huge gray paw lifted itself, claws flashed, the middle of a tunic tore in a ragged line, and the next thing Edmund knew, his stomach was bleeding.

To say that it did not take unspeakable courage for Edmund to release his rock-his only defense, however flimsy-and press his hand to his stomach to stop the bleeding, rolling onto his side, still trying to escape in spite of everything, would be nothing short of belittling to his character.

Indeed, while his going for that rock in the first place had surprised Maugrim not at all, this new-found determination in so young a boy did. If his disgust had not made him so upset that he simply had to let out a howl, he would have either finished off Edmund entirely or else sunk his teeth into one of his limbs and dragged him away. Yet, he took that moment to throw back his head and howl, so Edmund dashed up and started running. He dared not remove his hand from his stomach, lest he see how much blood he was really losing and lose all heart and nerve along with it.

He was so dizzy after this that nearly everything became a blur. How he had gotten away from the wolves he couldn't exactly recall. Later, when he thought it over, he marveled at his inability to logically explain how a pack of swift, wild wolves in perfect health hadn't managed to catch an injured, sickly boy, but, nonetheless, he couldn't.

All he remembered semi-clearly was that somehow or other there was the lapping of ocean waves at his bare, scratched-up foot and the wolves were gone. He thought he had a vague recollection of falling twice and nearly drowning himself because he couldn't get up again, yet he couldn't imagine how he'd gotten out of that scrape, either. Then he saw a great house of white marble and gold, all done-up with crimson flags (it was a castle, but he didn't realize that considering it looked very different from the only castle he knew); the doors were open for a feast.

It was warm under the table in the antechamber behind the cloth. By that point he was in so much pain that he just wanted to curl up and die for real, in spite of everything. At least, it wouldn't have been all in vain; at least he'd tasted freedom-painful, unfulfilling freedom, but still freedom all the same-for a few moments before death. Warmth felt good; he couldn't think of the last time he'd felt this close to being truly warm.

His eyes flew open, his rapid breathing slowing considerably, though his chest still moved up and down much too quickly and he could feel cold-sweat all over his face and neck. It took a moment, but finally the whole scene with that strange little girl appearing out of no where dragging him off and putting him in this nice, soft bed came flooding back.

These were very strange surroundings for him; he was clean, and his stomach-wound was dressed. The night-shift he was wearing wasn't his; he hadn't the foggiest notion where it had come from. Nor did he have any memory of Tumnus removing his tunic and cleaning him up, or of telling the faun-and the girl-his name.

All Edmund could think to do was look for the girl who'd put him here. He assumed that if anybody could tell him what the devil was going on, she could.

And, indeed, there was a girl at the side of the bed, wringing out a cool compress for his forehead. She had long, blackish hair and a pale, very grown-up face in spite of the fact that she couldn't have been more than perhaps five years his senior. She wore a chain with two interlocking rings, one yellow and one green, for pendants around her neck. The girl he remembered from last night-for it must be morning now, he reasoned-was much younger and had lighter hair a mite shorter.

"You're not her," he mumbled, clearly confused.

The older girl (who as you might have guessed was Susan Pevensie) shook her head, seeming to understand, and motioned over to the other side of the chamber with her chin. There, Princess Lucy sat in a wooden rocking-chair, glancing towards Edmund eagerly for signs of improvement, holding her knees to her chest. She had slept beside him all night, but she'd been up for hours by this time.

"My name's Lucy," she said, still clutching her knees tightly, craning her neck forward.

"I'm Edmund."

"I know, you told me yesterday, I've been waiting for you to wake up." She smiled at him and sat up straighter. Letting go of her knees, she got off the chair and walked over to his side.

"Where am I?" he wanted to know.

"Cair Paravel," said Lucy.

"Cair Paravel," he repeated pensively, "that's in Narnia, right?"

"Yes, of course."

"I see…" He looked over at Susan. "And who are you?"

"Susan Pevensie."

"Do you live here, too?"

"No," said Susan, shaking her head. "I'm just…sort of visiting…I suppose." She didn't think this was the right time to get into the fact that she was from another world-or, more importantly, that she was going to wake up soon. Being a tender-hearted girl, Susan hated to make anyone who was already so banged up and battered feel worse; and she gathered that pointing out that he, like Peter and Lucy, was just a sort of thing in her dream, would do just that.

"Where did you come from?" Lucy inquired of Edmund after a pause.

He hesitated, shivered a little, then admitted, "Charn."

Lucy's eyes widened, but there wasn't so much as a single trace of judgment flashing in them-for which, he was grateful. Susan would have been horrified if she had known anything about Charn, but of course she didn't so that name had no effect whatsoever upon her.

Charn was a kingdom as different from Narnia as a rose is from a wild weed that takes hold in places and chokes the life out of whatever stands in its way. It was always winter there, fairly blazing with constant blizzards and freezing spells, whereas in Narnia they had winters that were usually mild and the springs and summers where longer than average. What made it worse was that Charn had no fixed location. If you believed the old myths about it-which were full of both truth and untruth living side by side-you knew it was supposed to appear between many borders of lands and countries and kingdoms-even worlds-wrecking havoc. It was said to be as much a horrible, killing force as it was a real place. There were links into Charn that could suck you in, so the stories went. And here, lying in little Lucy's own bed, was a real, living, breathing boy from Charn.

Lucy had never heard of any _real_ humans coming from Charn. If there ever had been any there, then they didn't come into the old stories very much. Still, she believed Edmund and at the same time did not hate nor fear him; she pitied him all the more for whatever horrors he must have faced, and was glad to have him safe and sound.

It was less than three seconds after Edmund's confession that Peter and Tumnus came in to see how he was doing. Lucy immediately got up and ran over to Peter, telling him-though he could see that clearly enough for himself-that Edmund was awake and it seemed like he was going to pull through and be all right.

"Who are you?" asked Peter, now that he could talk to the boy.

"Edmund."

"Yes, Lucy and Tumnus have both told me that already, what is your surname?"

"I haven't got one," Edmund told him. "At least, I don't think I have."

A little hum of sympathy escaped from Susan's throat.

"He's a foundling," Lucy declared cheerfully. "Just like me."

"No, not exactly," Peter pointed out, "he remembers some things…or, at least, that his name is Edmund."

"Well, I still think it makes us the same," she insisted.

"Perhaps his clothes…" –Tumnus gestured over at the torn tunic that was still on the floor from the previous night- "…he was wearing that when Lucy found him, but I had to remove it to bathe his wound."

Peter nodded and went to examine the tunic. It was a very ordinary garment for the most part; a simple-cut, torn and heavily-stained thing that was originally black and blue and perhaps some other similar dark colours. Then he noticed something sticking out of a fold, which turned out to be a pocket. Reaching his hand in, Peter pulled out a white-gold medallion on a silver chain. This medallion was in the shake of sharp, crude snowflake. Not just any snowflake either, but a symbol Peter recognized and was instantly wary of.

"Where did this come from?"

"He had it round his neck before, but I took it off and put it in his pocket when we gave him his bath, your Majesty," answered Tumnus.

"Majesty?" Edmund's dark eyebrows shot up. "You're…"

"High King Peter of Narnia," said Peter shortly, not because he was cross, but because he was anxious, "yes."

Suddenly Susan noticed how small and white Edmund was starting to look; it was as if he was trying to shrink into the bed-and into a retreat-as much as possible. She wished there was something she could do to help him. Not even a dream-person ought to wear such a beaten-dog expression on their face-it was ghastly!

"This," Peter's voice was softer, lower, as he, too, noticed the boy's apparent fear, yet it was still firm and unsettled the way a king's tone has to be under such unreliable circumstances, "is the emblem of none other than Queen Jadis, the White Witch of Charn. Tell me, and speak truth if you value your life, where you got this."

Edmund's shoulders shook and, although there was nothing he wished to do in front of all these royal persons _less_ , he broke down and started blubbing.

"There, there." Susan patted his shoulder awkwardly.

Lucy loaned him her handkerchief and told him everything was fine, even putting her arms around him until he stopped shaking.

Feeling stupid, Edmund hastily stuffed the handkerchief behind his pillow and squirmed his way out of Lucy's grasp.

"I wasn't trying to scare you," Peter amended, feeling guilty, thinking it was his sternness that might have brought the boy to tears.

"I'm not afraid of _you_ ," sneered Edmund, with more contempt than was really called for.

"But it's very important that you tell us where you got the medallion. Did the White Witch give it to you?"

"Sort of," he mumbled almost inaudibly.

"Did you _steal_ it?" The high king hated to ask, but it was his duty to know these things.

Edmund shrugged his shoulders unhelpfully, wincing at the pain this caused his bound-up torso.

"You won't make him go back, Peter, will you?" Lucy's eyes started filling with tears of their own. "I don't think he's bad."

"Of course not." Peter couldn't imagine forcing a frightened, injured boy to leave the safety of Narnia and return to Charn. And even if he was the sort of king who would have done a horrible thing like that, one could never be too sure where the borders of Charn were at any given moment. More likely, if Edmund was ever to return to that awful place, it would be because Charn found _him_.

While he questioned the boy no further, Peter did whisper-ask Tumnus to keep a sharp ear around their new foundling and to report anything he heard to him directly.

"Yes, your Majesty," replied Tumnus, bowing quickly.

"And, if you can, Master Tumnus," Peter added discreetly, a little later when they met up in the corridors, "I certainly don't mean to over-burden you-I know you're doing your best-but if you possibly can, try to do a bit of a background check on him. Find out if there are any missing boys by the name of Edmund; and don't alarm anyone while you're at it, but see if you can't find out anything about his possible connection to the White Witch of Charn. I don't wish to agitate him any deeper; the boy looks scared to pee almost, poor chap. But you understand that I can't put my country at even the slightest risk."

Late that night, Susan was feeling very tired, having spent much of the day helping Lucy look after Edmund while Peter was busy at meetings with centaur blacksmiths and the chief talking mouse-who was a knight, by the way-and then with settling an issue between two very cross dryads who both claimed ownership to the same birch tree. She would have liked nothing better than to crawl into bed and fall into a deep slumber.

And such a funny thing it is, Susan thought laughingly to herself, falling asleep in a dream and then having another dream within it! Rather like a dream of a dream-very peculiar indeed. Perhaps, despite that fact that I'm not much good at writing compositions, I ought to put all of this into a book someday-or find someone to do it for me. But then, they might think I'm mad; such a very unusual dream this is! Fancy my feeling this tired in the middle of it!

As it was, she felt she really was too groggy to crawl into bed without sitting by the warm fireplace first, and then she was too comfortable to get up. So it came about that when she finally willed herself into the bed, between the smooth satin sheets, she went out like a light.

It could not have been more than three hours later, when she was still plenty sleepy, that she felt a hand on her upper arm and cracked an eyelid open to see what was happening. Almost at once she saw that it was Peter hovering over her. Instinctively, one of her hands flew to the rings hanging from her neck, to be sure he wasn't trying to snatch them away. But as soon as she took in-though it was quite hard with such weak lighting-his concerned expression, she was certain his visit had nothing to do with the rings she'd brought from Mr. Ketterley.

"Susan," he whispered quickly, "you all right?"

"I'm _fine_ ," she muttered, yawning her whole head off, wondering how she would manage to keep her eyes open long enough to speak with him about whatever was amiss.

His brow crinkled and his concerned expression deepened. "You sleeping?"

"I _was_ ," grumbled Susan.

"I'm sorry, I thought I heard a girl-or else a lady-crying."

"Peter," she groaned practically, "if you were in your bed-chamber when you heard this, it must have been a dream. See, this chamber isn't close enough to yours for you to have heard anything even if it was real. What's more, the walls are thick, now please let me go back to sleep."

"I know, but I checked Lucy's chamber first, since she's much closer to me, and she wasn't crying, she was sleeping sound as anything."

Lucky girl, thought Susan grumpily.

"And then," Peter went on, "I even checked on Edmund, you know, just in case…even though it didn't sound a thing like him…but he seemed fine, too."

"So you woke me up because…?"

"I thought it might have been you who was crying, I was worried."

"You've just been dreaming, do go back to sleep again."

"Coming from you of all people, I don't find that very reassuring," he said pointedly. "You think everything's a dream."

"Oh, bother that," murmured Susan, turning on her side and wrapping her fingers around the corner of her pillow.

"Su-" Peter began; but she was already asleep once more, snoring like a fog-horn.

Sighing, he shook his head and lightly pulled an extra blanket over her. "Night, Susan."


	4. Even more ado about Something

"Roonwit," said Peter, leaning heavily on the side of his throne, "what do you know about dreams?"

"Dreams, Sire?" Roonwit the centaur glanced up from the sword he was polishing, lightly scraped one of his back-hooves against the marble floor, and then looked to the high king.

"I know it sounds like an odd question, but I've…I mean, I'm starting to think something strange is going on. Not only here at Cair, but…I don't know…I can't figure it out. I heard some centaurs live to a great age and gain knowledge of things humans can't fully understand; that some of you are prophets."

"That's true," said Roonwit, placing the sword down and plucking thoughtfully at his long beard of curling gold. "This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with your new friend, the lady who wears two rings on a chain round her neck, muttering off about how everything in this castle is a dream she is going to wake up from, would it, your Majesty?"

"Surprisingly, no." Peter shook his head. "It's not her-though she really ought to let me take a closer look at those rings-it's…well, something else entirely."

"Please explain, Sire."

"I've been having these…" -his forehead crinkled- "…dreams…about this girl-young woman, maybe-in a forest. It started a week or so ago, after Edmund arrived. I woke up because I thought I heard a girl crying; but Lucy and Susan were fine."

"And then what?"

Peter closed his eyes and shook his head. "Then I started seeing her-sort of-and it's…it's like I'm in her head and in her heart…almost as if I can hear her thoughts sometimes." He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze intently on Roonwit. "Is that normal?"

"It is normal to have dreams, your Majesty," the centaur replied diplomatically.

"Hang it all, Roonwit! Please give a me a straight answer."

"I'm afraid I do not know," he said after a pause. "I watch the skies so that I might sometimes hear the stars whispering; for the ears of a centaur can pick up those silvery whispers from time to time-the best of us can learn to understand them. There have been whispers, but I'm afraid any complete thoughts have not come through. All I can comfortably translate is something daughter…tower…something son…king…forest…guest, starlight, and love. I know not what it means."

"Do you think all that gibberish is connected to my dreams?" Peter wanted to know.

Roonwit shrugged his massive, muscular shoulders. "I don't know for certain, but I wouldn't rule it out. A king should always expect the unexpected and plan accordingly."

"How can I plan when I haven't the faintest notion of what-or even if something really is-happening?"

"Keep your ears, eyes, and mind open, High King." Roonwit picked up the sword again and slid it into a sheath. "Then start thinking strategy. What may work for swordsman's tricks, will fail miserably in a game of Chess."

"Yes, Roonwit, but what if it's both?"

"Then you keep one hand on your sword-hilt at all times and make your move with the other."

They spent a few moments in silence, lost in thought.

Then Roonwit said, "Your Majesty, what does the lady in those dreams of yours look like?"

"I haven't seen her face," Peter told him, his eyes drifting up briefly towards the glass ceiling as he furrowed his brow, struggling to remember; "but she's quite tall and has long yellow hair all down her back. Her skin is very light, almost reflectively so."

A loud shriek-one of anger, not fear-echoed through the corridor, and Peter, recognizing Lucy's voice and hearing some words she had definitely not learned from _him_ , got up to see what the problem was.

Directly outside the throne room, Lucy had Edmund in a headlock and Susan, looking tired and flustered, was trying to separate them, ignoring the red-faced, strangely determined little girl's protests.

Regarding this rather nasty row, you mustn't imagine even for a moment that Lucy no longer liked Edmund or that she was really trying to hurt him. Indeed, in light of his stomach-injury, she was careful to avoid accidentally slamming against his torso-this was why she had gone for his head in the first place and not anything lower. However, she was quite angry with him at the moment; that fact cannot be dismissed.

"All right, break it up," said Peter, his affection for Lucy inclining him to scowl at Edmund even though he had no proof that the boy had started it. To Susan, he added, "What happened here?"

Susan inhaled deeply, shaking her head disappointedly at Lucy. "I've never seen her so cross before; it was down-right naughty of her to fly at the boy in such a rage. They had some sort of disagreement about some person they were talking about while walking the castle grounds…someone called Aslan, I think…anyway, he said something-I didn't catch exactly what it was-and she told him to take it back and he wouldn't."

"He said horrible things about-" Lucy cut in, sounding as if she were about to cry at any given moment. "Oh, Peter, he said that Aslan-"

Susan, being far too grown-up to deal with a child-like display of desperation and torn loyalty, perhaps not catching the full impact of Lucy's despair, tossed her head back and said in an annoying adult voice, "There's nothing to be so upset about, Lucy, no one was hurt-thankfully-and I think there could be some apologies on both sides."

Knowing Peter would understand even if Susan didn't, Lucy finally bawled out, "But he said that Aslan _ate_ people and that he was nothing but a big brute of a cat!"

Putting a hand on the little princess of Narnia's shoulder to steady her, he whispered, "He doesn't understand, Lu, how could he? If he really is from Charn, how would he know?" This seemed to calm her so that her face went from crimson to white and she looked at Edmund with a kinder, more pitying expression.

I do wonder what they're talking about, it sounds like pure nonsense to me, Susan thought; she saw that the high king looked as if he was about to say something more and listened though she thought it must be all rot, so muddled up for being such a very long dream-maybe her longest ever.

"And Edmund," -Peter made sure the boy was looking at him and listening to him- "you really mustn't speak of Aslan like that again. You might not know anything really about Him, but we do-at least a little bit, see? And it isn't lucky to talk like that for another matter. Besides, think of what we've done for you-especially Lucy, finding you and getting help so quickly-and keep such comments to yourself from now on."

"I-I'm sorry," said Edmund to Lucy, his voice a little shaky. "I didn't realize…well, I'm sorry."

"It's all right, I forgive you." She reached out and shook his hand; she would have liked to give him a hug, out of sheer sadness that he'd had no one to explain the most important things in the world to him, but-still thinking of his stomach wound-decided not to. "I say, Ed, I am sorry I flew at you like that."

"There! Was that so hard?" came from Susan.

"Now no more fighting." Peter gave Lucy a reassuring pat on the arm and headed down the other end of the corridor.

"Peter?" He heard a small inquisitive voice behind him and turned around to see Susan following him.

"Yes?"

"Who's Aslan?" She knew she was blushing furiously, hating to look under-educated or otherwise unknowing, but she wanted to know badly enough to endure it.

Peter's lips parted, his brow crinkled in deep confusion. "You don't know?"

"I haven't exactly been here very long," she defended herself, bushing harder. "How could I-even if it is _my_ dream-be expected to know anything? About someone who's not in the world I came from, no less."

"I don't know if that's quite true," Peter mused, smiling a sleepy, inward, knowing sort of smile to himself. "It's my belief-and Lucy's, too, I daresay-that he's in lots of other worlds parallel to this one, only he must have another name-otherwise everyone would know what Aslan meant at once when it was brought up. _You_ would have, at any rate."

"This is frightfully fascinating," Susan sighed, "but I must have gone round the bend completely to be dreaming all this up. Do you suppose I might have eaten something that disagreed with me?"

"I don't know." Peter waved that off, making a brushing motion with one of his hands. He was tired of her dream-talk; he had his own dream-problems to worry about without her incessant disbelieving prattle making his head spin. "Anyway, Aslan is the rightfull king of all Narnia."

"I thought you were the king, the high king." Her lips pouted slightly and her gaze on him grew a bit suspicious.

He laughed at that. "No, I haven't lied to you, I am the high king. Aslan is a king over high kings."

"I see," she said, though she didn't-not really. "Does this man come and check up on you from time to time, then?"

"Man?" he said, startled. "Aslan, a man?"

"Well, isn't he?"

"Dash it, of course not!" He couldn't help laughing again. "Why would you ever think that?"

Scowling, "Well, I told you I didn't know him, and you weren't very clear."

"Well, he's not a man-that's just that."

"Fine," she replied; "but what is he?"

"He's the great Lion."

Susan felt her pulse quicken and her heart stop beating for a split-second. She felt as if two different people were in her very core at the same time; both were her, but one was horrified, frightened beyond all reason, while the other bore herself peacefully as if some delightful smell or strand of music had just wafted by.

"Peter," she said, unsure and shaky, "is he quite safe?"

"No."

"Oh dear, I shan't like to meet him then. I do hope I wake up before it comes to that!"

"Susan," said Peter gently, actually daring to reach for one of her hands and hold it consolingly, "you needn't be afraid. He isn't safe, but he is good. As good as gold. Why it was Aslan who is said to have sung all of Narnia into existence at the dawn of time."

"A lion singing made a whole world?" She couldn't make herself believe _that_.

"Not just _a_ lion, Susan!" Peter exclaimed. " _The_ Lion, the great Lion."

"I'm not sure I understand, but you know him, I suppose, so he must be good-like you say. You do know him, right?"

The corners of Peter's mouth twitched. "He knows me-I'm certain of it-that's good enough."

"But, I say, why was Lucy so angry in his defense?"

"She's true as steel for Aslan," the high king explained, grinning at the thought of his brave little foundling sister. "You'd be better off drinking a galleon of poison than insulting him in her presence. I'm rather under the impression that she believes it was He who saved her life as a very small child when she was chased by a wolf-frightening it away."

"Do you believe that?" Susan asked. "It sounds like a child's fairy-tale to me."

"I don't know," was his answer. "It might be as you say. But to look at her beaming face, knowing she believes it, when she asks if it I think it was Aslan, I think it's best to just say-'it might have been'; after all, it's not a lie. It might be true as anything, for all I know."

"I don't think it's wise to encourage children to believe in things if you don't know them to be fact," said Susan, sort of quietly, wondering if her comment would offend him.

"Oh, I don't know if we mean the same thing, Susan Pevensie," he answered. "I think there's something to be said for allowing a young person to acquire an imagination, and to believe in something better than we're allowed in life and to long for it. But I'm with you completely on not lying to children. I mean, just take that Edmund fellow for example; we don't know much about him, yet just by his demeanor you wonder if anyone's ever told him a single true thing in his life. I wouldn't wish that on Lucy, you see, but I don't believe in shattering hopes and dreams, either."

"I'm not sure I believe in talking Lions that exist in dream-worlds and in real ones at the same time."

Peter gave her an understanding half-smile. "That's okay."

"I say, what is that?" Susan's attention was suddenly turned to twelve pairs of what looked like worn-out dancing slippers on the floor in front of a narrow chamber with a steel door.

"Oh, sometimes the maid-servant dryads sneak out to go dancing at night," Peter chuckled. "Tumnus locked them in once, just as a sort of experiment, but they got out anyway and wore out their shoes as usual. So they tend to leave them outside the door in the mornings for the court cobbler to notice and repair."

"What's with that?" Susan motioned over at a medium-sized orange object-a pumpkin-to the left of the shoes.

Peter's light eyebrows came together in puzzlement for a moment. "You know, I always forget what the pumpkin is for."

That night, Lucy was in her bed. She was no longer sharing with Edmund who had by this point of course been moved into a proper guest chamber; and she was the sort of girl who could be known to have trouble once she got used to having a bed-fellow and then was suddenly plunged back into sleeping by herself. She was restless, no longer used to have so much room, and after a while, she decided to get up and wander the corridors until she felt sleepy enough to drop off into a suitable slumber. She lit a candle, placed it in a brass holder, wrapped a dressing-gown over her nightdress, and walked out of the chamber.

For some reason or other, she decided, in the end, to visit Peter and see if he was still up, too. Usually he slept pretty soundly, but sometimes matters of state and country kept him awake at night, and on such occasions-when she, too, couldn't sleep-she liked to keep him company. Sometimes she made him laugh, and he seemed to feel better.

The door to his bed-chamber was slightly ajar, so Lucy pushed it all the way open and slid in. She went over to the bed first, but he wasn't there.

"Peter?"

The French-doors leading out to the balcony were both wide open. It was sort of a chill night-especially for that time of year-and it struck even someone as free-spirited as Lucy as odd that he would be out there so late in the cold. But as she assumed he would be bundled up against the nippy air, she wasn't too worried until she saw him sitting on the railing, looking up at the sky. The high king wore no protective cloak or dressing-gown over his thin night-shift, and though he sat perilously on the edge-as if he really might fall off to his death at any given moment-he didn't look afraid. Nor, surprisingly, did he appear truly cold. His ears were red while the rest of him seemed completely unaffected by the frigid temperature. His eyes were half-vacant and his expression borderline emotionless. Strangest of all, there was a queer, pale sort of light round him that wasn't quite like moonlight and seemed to be coming _from_ him as opposed to falling _on_ him from another source.

"Peter!" Lucy ran over to him and grabbed his arm, pulling him backwards off the railing.

The inner light dimmed and then vanished altogether. His eyes focused on her, blinking twice. And, without warning, he began to shiver.

"Lu, what are you doing out here?" he asked, his eyes widening, not with concern for himself, but, rather, for her. "You'll catch your death."

"Peter, what just happened?" she asked him, taking a step backwards, trying to comprehend what she had just seen.

"What happened when?"

"Just now," she said, "you were on the railing and… _glowing_ …and you…"

But Peter couldn't remember; he didn't even remember coming out onto the balcony in the first place. Best the two of them could guess, he might have been out there for hours without knowing.

"Come on," Peter said, reaching for a cloak that had escaped Lucy's notice since it had been on the balcony floor instead of on the king's shoulders were it belonged, "let's go inside."

In spite of Lucy's protests that she was plenty warm enough and it was he who need the warmth, if only for the few moments before they reached the inside of his chamber, he put the cloak over her.

The fire in the grate was out, so Peter and Lucy worked with their partially-numb fingers to light it so as to make the chamber comfortable again.

Once he was certain Lucy was all right, Peter sent her back to her own bed-chamber.

"But what about you?" she whispered anxiously.

"What about me?"

"You-something's not right."

"I'm fine, Lucy," he said, yawning.

She stared at him intently, not sure if she believed that.

"Really," he insisted.

"See you later." Lucy's voice was small, for she was tired; and now she was a little frightened, too, no matter how confident Peter tried to sound about whatever had just happened.

"Goodnight," he said shortly but not unkindly. "I love you."

"Love you too. Goodnight."


	5. King Caspian is Surprised

One would think that after another two and a half weeks had gone by, Susan would have figured out-considering she was still there and hadn't opened her eyes to find herself in her bedroom back home in England-that everything happening to her probably wasn't a dream after all. But, in spite of the fact that she was a highly intelligent girl in most cases, she didn't. She continued to believe it was all a dream. How could it be real? The things she had seen and heard belonged to the world of camp-fire stories, not the waking, walking and talking, world of sense.

Regardless, in any case, Susan was still living with Peter and Lucy at the great Narnian court of Cair Paravel-as was Edmund-when the former prince of Telmar-newly crowned king-came for an annul visit.

By this point in the story, it is important to state that Edmund and Lucy had become as thick as thieves. After she forgave him for what he said about Aslan, able to fully attribute it to ignorance and not true cruelty, nor even stupidity, they became splendid playmates round the castle. Edmund largely expected a girl-especially a princess-to be afraid of doing anything exciting-such as climbing trees or swimming in deep water-but Lucy proved his expectations quite wrong. In fact, she was able to be more adventurous even than he could allow himself to be due to his still-healing injury. But she was a patient friend as well, always accepting his limitations and working around them in a kindly manner without making him feel like a burden for it.

Peter often smiled when he watched them play together. In truth, he was growing rather fond of Edmund himself, though he was still a bit wary of the boy since had learned next to nothing about his life in Charn and who he'd been there. Understandably, Edmund didn't like to talk about it, and Peter respected that, relying on Tumnus to find information. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to matter who Tumnus questioned, no one really knew anything about a missing boy-nor anything new relating to Charn, when he dared to slip it into a conversation. So he had nothing to report to the high king about the matter, always coming back empty-handed.

After a while, in spite of the fact that he could not will himself to put away every last reservation about a boy from Charn being more or less a member of the court (for a king has a duty to protect his country), he got so used to him being there that it was almost like having a younger brother. Maybe Lucy's statement that he was a foundling just as she was wasn't so far off after all.

It would be rather nice to say here that Edmund's past never came up again and from this point on they all lived happily ever, frolicking their days away in the Eastern Sea. Quite a lovely notion it would be. However, that isn't what happened and if it was, perhaps this story would be a lot less interesting.

As it was, near disaster struck when King Caspian (often called King Caspian the tenth) arrived in the courtyard on the day of his visit.

At first things seemed to be going very well and nothing extraordinary appeared to be happening. Peter greeted the Telmarine king with a proper formal handshake and had his pages help his royal Majesty off of his horse, and then made sure to ask if he'd had a comfortable journey.

"Yes, King Peter, thank you," said Caspian, his accent thick, glancing around the courtyard with a half-smile, for he actually liked the country of Narnia a great deal and was always secretly pleased when duty called for him to visit it. "How have things been here? I trust the issue with the giants on the border has finally been resolved?"

"Oh, yes, rather!" said Peter, launching into the sort of talk that is fascinating if you are into politics, wars, and current events, but is unbearably dull otherwise. All kings, however, despite whatever their true natures on these matters are, have no choice in their feelings about this kind of talk; if they do not like it, they must learn to like it. "I'm told we owe some gratitude to you Telmarines for driving them further back and giving them a good beating in our name so that they would not cross our frontiers as frequently."

"It was nothing," Caspian replied modestly. "Indeed, it would be a lie to say the Narnians have not helped us when they can. And of course the swords your dwarfs sent us as coronation presents were wonderful. Our locally-made weapons all look like toys for children in comparison."

"I certainly hope you won't ever raise them against us," Peter half-joked.

Caspian laughed at this. "We're sworn to peace, your Majesty is welcome."

"As is _your_ Majesty."

"Very gracious of you to say, and how is the Princess Lucy?"

"She's well, thank you." Peter nodded as they passed two faun chambermaids who bent their glossy-furred goat-legs and curtsied.

"How is she amusing herself these days?"

Peter laughed, "Very easily, Caspian, for she has a new play-fellow."

Caspian smirked. "How sweet."

"Usually it is," Peter agreed; "but she did get the poor chap in a head-lock once when he insulted Aslan."

"If you don't mind my asking, how is it that he dared?" Caspian's olive-complexion face went a little darker with confusion. "I am not only surprised in light of Lucy's being so devout and her companion getting the nerve, but also as common sense tells me that even a near-heathen, a non-Narnian, a Telmarine or a noble from Ettinsmoor, wouldn't speak ill of Aslan. Is her little friend a Calormene boy, then? I've heard the lords of Calormen don't fancy the great Lion much. Something to do with a bird-god thing they call Tash."

"No, he's not a Calormene," Peter told him, his tone reasonable but also on the defense for Edmund's case; "he's whiter than you, definitely northern-bred." He was uncertain whether or not he ought to mention the bit about Charn. Part of him wanted to, so as to get King Caspian's feelings on the matter and also some advice, yet he didn't wish to put Edmund in jeopardy of becoming a victim of prejudice.

"Strange," Caspian mused. "I wonder who raised the boy to speak so."

You and me both, thought Peter.

"Now, I do not mean to pry, but I heard there is a young woman visiting Cair Paravel at the moment?" He arched a brow.

"Yes, that's true."

"Is it the duke of North-Western Ettinsmoor's daughter?" Caspian spoke decorously, but there was a thinly-veiled suggestive undertone of teasing to it as well.

Peter willed himself-somewhat unsuccessfully-not to blush from sheer embarrassment, surprisingly not from thinking about the duke's daughter (whom he had never met) but rather from thinking about the real visitor, Susan Pevensie. If called on this, however, he would have been glad enough of Caspian-and anyone else within hearing distance-assuming it was the thought of the Ettinsmoor lady that made him shift uncomfortably.

"No, it's not what you're thinking," he said. "The lady visitor is…" From another world? Not right in the head? Thinks she's dreaming? Stunningly attractive? Very likeable once you get over her bossiness? "…lost…sort of…her name is Susan Pevensie, she's been staying with us till we can get her back to where she came from."

"What is the name of her country?"

"England."

"Never heard of it."

"Nor have I, to tell you the truth." Peter wondered if Caspian would believe the girl had just magically fallen out of his mirror one day and had been with them ever since.

They entered the castle's great marble hall side by side, servants bowing as they walked by. Tumnus came and bowed to Caspian, saying he hoped he hadn't had any trouble on the road while traveling.

"None at all, friend," the king of Telmar assured him.

"Glad to hear it," said the faun Tumnus. "Princess Lucy was here a moment ago; she's run off with her little friend again."

"We're here, Caspian!" Lucy peeked her head out from behind a pillar.

"Good day, little Princess," Caspian laughed.

Reluctantly, Edmund stuck his own head out from behind another pillar. As soon as he saw Caspian, knew him for the prince-well, king now-of Telmar, his eyes widened and he pulled himself back behind the pillar-where it was safe. He hoped to edge away while the others spoke to their guest, thinking to hide in one of the endless chambers and hidden passageways he was beginning to know about in the castle. But Lucy, oblivious to the fact that her two friends shouldn't very much like to meet each other, mistook Edmund's actions for shock and shyness. After all, she'd forgotten to tell him that the king of Telmar was visiting today. To be fair, she'd forgotten he was coming herself until she'd heard his voice speaking with Tumnus just then and recognized it with glee. Lucy liked Caspian, who had always been kind to her and sometimes even brought her little treats and gifts when he came to Cair.

"Come on out, Ed." Lucy grabbed onto her friend's tunic sleeve and pulled him into the open.

"Hello," said Caspian shortly, his tone laced with coldness.

Edmund muttered something and avoided his eyes.

"What's wrong?" asked Lucy, glancing back and forth between them.

"King Peter, may I speak with you in private?" Caspian's distant expression hardened into an unmistakable, distrusting glare in Edmund's general direction.

Sensing something important had taken place, Peter said, "Yes, of course." To his foundling sister he added, "Why don't you and Edmund go help the talking moles tend to the orchard grounds?"

His tone was the one he always used when something political was about to be discussed and he didn't want her around to listen to it. Often, especially as she got older, this irritated Lucy greatly, since she thought that as an adopted princess she ought to know what was going on with the country, but she could see this uncomfortable, tight look embedding itself on Edmund's face as he shifted from foot to foot, desperate to get out of the King of Telmar's presence, so she digressed and submitted without putting up a fight.

"Peter," said Caspian, once they were alone, "that is not a suitable play-fellow for Lucy-don't you know who that boy is?"

"His name's Edmund," Peter said; _and he's from Charn_.

"In the Telmarine language we would call him Edmond De Charne."

"As in Edmund of Charn?"

"Yes."

"The boy was hurt when he came here, Caspian, we couldn't let him die just because he came from Charn. He's only a kid after all."

Caspian snorted in a very ungentlemanly manner. "Horrible little beast is more like it."

"Do you _know_ him?" Peter's eyes widened, wondering if there was something behind this story he simply wasn't getting.

"Sort of." Caspian gritted his teeth. "The closest thing he has to a mother is Queen Jadis, the White Witch."

"More of a reason, I'd say, to pity him than otherwise," said Peter, alarmed, but not to the extent that Caspian currently was.

"You don't know what a boy brought up by a creature like that might do," he pointed out urgently. "Can you not imagine him poisoning the well you drink from or setting fire to Cair Paravel itself? He might do anything! You can't trust him."

Actually Peter, despite his concerns which were notably deeper now that the connection to Jadis was reaffirmed, couldn't quite picture Edmund doing any of those things. He just seemed like a scared little boy. It was hard to envision the boy who'd broken down crying in front of them, who played with little Lucy every day, who seemed so thankful for all they had done, causing them harm.

"He's not a bad person."

"He might be pretending."

"He didn't _pretend_ to have his stomach sliced clean open," Peter commented dryly.

"I'm just looking out for the best interest of Narnia, as-with all due respect-you should be doing, King Peter."

"You speak as though you've met him before."

"I have." Caspian grimaced. "To be honest, I've seen Charn before, too. It was when I was fleeing from my Uncle who wanted to give my throne to his own son, my cousin. I was in a forest-or else a very, very dense wood-and suddenly all the trees were covered in frost. Without knowing it, I had crossed the borders into the ever-moving, accursed land of Charn."

"And you met Edmund there?"

"Indeed," he nodded. "He was younger then, of course, but he looked similar enough to how he looks now, though to be fair the expression on his face was a bit nastier then."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"He did steal my horse."

"Oh, any ill-raised child might do a thing like that!" Peter rolled his eyes.

"But how if Jadis is playing a trick out you? Think how close he is getting to your family now, always by Lucy's side like that. How do you know he isn't going to turn on all of you? I am no tale-bearer, usually, but I once heard a story about a wicked fairy who trained an adopted orphan and had the child worm its way into the affections of the Royal Court of Archenland not so long ago. That child let in an army that raided the place and killed many of their best knights; only it was a girl in that case."

"Well, Edmund isn't a girl," Peter said indifferently, as though letting armies into royal fortresses was a strictly female problem and not to be feared in a boy. In truth, he was thinking 'what if' and second-guessing himself in his head, but the strange sense of loyalty he found bubbling up for Edmund, almost as if he were his own kin, struck him hard. He thought it might be an enchantment, not being ignorant to the idea, but somehow he doubted that as well.

"Keep an eye on him," Caspian advised.

"I will," Peter promised; that much he could agree to-it was just what kings did, it was part of the job description.

"Peter?"

Both kings turned and looked to the doorway, and saw Susan standing there.

"Ah, Susan," Peter called her over, "I want you to meet a friend of mine and of Narnia, King Caspian the tenth of Telmar."

Caspian wasn't a bad-looking fellow. He was handsome in a very different way than Peter was, darker where the Narnian king was light and fair-headed, and a bit taller than him as well. His face was built more like that of a grown man; Peter's face looked adult from wisdom, but it still had some of the chronological-age childishness of it present.

Susan, feeling a little shy, blushed in the new king's presence and curtsied deeply, peering up coyly at him from under the tips of her eyelashes.

Although he knew he hadn't a reason for it, no just-cause whatsoever, Peter felt a passing shiver of jealously run up and down his spine. He was fairly certain Susan was flirting with Caspian, and though it shouldn't have mattered to him what the other-worldly girl chose to do, he couldn't help feeing a little slighted. After all, he wondered, if she had met Caspian first, would she have been so stubborn about the rings or insistent on everything being a dream? Not that it mattered, Peter wasn't interested in Susan in that way, beautiful in form or not, but for some reason he didn't like the thought of her falling for the Telmarine king; it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Pleased to meet you, your Majesty," said Susan, her tone the annoying sickly-sweet kind that besotted women tend to use when addressing men of importance; regardless that it annoys nearly everyone else who has to listen to it aside from the one being flattered.

That's a far cry from 'delusional boy who thinks he's royalty', Peter thought sullenly.

"The pleasure is mine," Caspian said, beaming.

"I'm sure it is," Peter muttered under his breath.

"What?" They both turned and looked at him.

Peter smiled innocently, hoping they wouldn't notice that he was struggling not to speak through his teeth. "Oh, nothing." He hadn't meant to speak aloud before, however quietly.

Outside, in the orchard, Lucy was playing with a little white mouse she'd freed from a trap (not a _talking_ mouse, of course), feeding it a piece of cheese. Edmund was sitting beside her, watching with a knowing sense of fascination as she fearlessly held the little creature without screaming or squealing or doing anything similarly stupid or girly. Partly, though, he was distracted, worried that Caspian would say something to Peter about his being the boy the Telmarines called Edmond De Charne; the so-called son of the white witch. It is one thing to be insulted by a group of village boys with the taunting sneer of, 'your mama's a witch!', it is quite another for that to be more or less true, hanging over you all your life.

"I'm going to name him after you," Lucy decided, staring down at her mouse as he cleaned his whiskers.

"Edmund the mouse?" Edmund snapped back to attention from his fears, a little troubled by his companion's taste in naming animals.

"No," said Lucy, "just Ed."

"I see." He forced a smile. "Are you going to let him go?"

Sighing, she nodded a little sadly. "He'll be happier roaming free than cooped up in a castle trap."

"Where are you going to release him?"

"Oh, I think near the outer walls," said Lucy, getting up. To the mouse, "Come on, Ed."

Edmund chuckled and shook his head.

"Ahem." Someone behind him cleared their throat.

He turned around slowly, willing himself not to do anything stupid or hasty; such a fleeing or wetting his tights. After all, if he was doomed to be a 'son of witch' he could at least handle it with some dignity as opposed to the lot of blubbing and cowardice he'd demonstrated thus far.

Sure enough, Caspian stood behind him, his glower intense and unwavering. "I know who you are, boy."

Edmund made no reply.

"I don't know what you want from the Narnians, but hear me now, if you ever do anything to harm a single hair on Princess Lucy's head, or attempt treason against Peter the high king, or spill even so much as a single drop of Narnian blood, I will show you no mercy. I am the king's man, as well as a king in my own rights, you cannot fool me."

"You don't know anything," growled Edmund, feeling his cheeks flaring up with hot anger. "Don't speak to me like that."

Caspian's hand was on his sword hilt; and so was Edmund's now (Peter had given him a sword a while back). A fight might have started, but Lucy happened to walk by in the nick of time, grab Edmund's arm, and take him away.

He noticed, still, as he was being pulled off, Caspian was mouthing, "I'm watching you."

Very late in the afternoon, when it was nearly early evening, Tumnus came into the high king's bed-chamber carrying a tea-tray containing some biscuits and a decanter of fresh water.

Peter had been napping, his eyes moving rapidly under their tightly shut lids. Suddenly he sat up gasping, looking frightened and very pale.

"The nightmares again?" Tumnus looked concerned.

He nodded. "Roonwit said they might be normal." Well, no, to be exact, that wasn't quite what he'd said, but the thought was reassuring to Peter and he needed to speak it aloud to console his shaken self.

"Do you want to talk about it, your Majesty?"

"I only saw the side of her face for a second," Peter murmured, more to himself than to Tumnus, his fingers tightly curled around the corners of the bed-sheets, "but she seemed so scared."

"Perhaps you should rest tonight, instead of entertaining your visitor," Tumnus suggested mildly, pouring the king a glass of water and handing it to him. "I'm sure King Caspian would be more than understanding if you wanted to take supper in your chambers tonight and declined to join them at the evening meal."

"Thank you." Peter took the water with a trembling hand and gulped it down quickly before handing the empty glass back to the faun. "No, I should go down to the dinning hall for supper. Someone has to make sure Caspian and Edmund don't kill each other-I get the sense that if looks could kill that boy would be lying at Caspian's feet by now. Not that I think Ed's faultless, exactly, but still."

"As you say, Sire." Tumnus bowed politely, putting the stopper back on the decanter. "Do you want to change for supper?"

"Rather!" Peter said, getting up, taking in the crude appearance of his ruffled tunic in the mirror. "How about my brown velvet doublet?"

"I'll get it for you at once."

"Thank you."

"Anything else, Sire?"

"Do you think Edmund's safe?" He wanted a second opinion.

"I don't know," said Tumnus. "But maybe deep down he is good."

"I wish Aslan could tell me what to do, give me some sort of proof that I'm performing my duties aright."

Tumnus smiled. "Perhaps you're the one who needs to proof yourself to him."

"As you say, Tumnus," sighed Peter agreeably. "It may well be as you say."


	6. The Tell Tale Medallion

It was a warm day, too warm for a fire to be lit in the grate, so when Susan opened the door to Cair Paravel's south-west parlor and saw a row of flames in the brick-and-brass, jasper-inlaid fireplace, she was a little surprised-her practical side caught between annoyance and confusion. Given, to be fair, it was only a small wood-chips and pine-cones fire, not a proper one made with thick wintry-logs or even a bundle of crackling sticks. All the same it was still surprising.

Edmund was standing over the fire holding the snowflake medallion, the emblem of the evil Queen Jadis of Charn, so close to the flames that it was a wonder he did not scorch his hands in the process. Peter had, doing his kingly duty, hidden the medallion away; never having actually given it back to Edmund. But the boy had found it anyway and was hoping to destroy it.

His reasoning was that if it was an accursed thing of winter-of ice and snow and despair-perhaps it could be melted away, perhaps it wasn't real white-gold after all. If only it were truly a mere enchantment that could be washed away by warmth. Part of him felt stupid for wanting to try it, yet the second he had the chance, he'd pinched it back, and found himself bitterly disappointed when the metal turned out to be either as-real-as-corn after all or else something that-while magical-could not be destroyed by melting with fire's heat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Susan standing there staring at him, her brow slightly lowered. Supposing she told High King Peter about this…about him taking the medallion back? He might get the wrong idea and be angry with him. Worse, it was almost a guaranteed that Caspian would jump on his back first chance he got, not even giving him a real chance to explain. Such was the burden of being from Charn. There were moments when Edmund had honestly wondered if he should have lied; but, no that would have been disastrous, for Peter would have known the truth by the medallion, and even if he had not, Caspian would have blown his cover and he would have looked truly malicious, as if he had some ghastly intentions against Narnia.

"Don't tell him," said Edmund, shooting Susan the most pleading expression he could manage, knowing it was laced with guilt as well, hoping it tipped the balance in his favor instead of otherwise. "I…I only wanted to see if there was some way of…of…getting rid of it."

There was no point-as far as Susan's view in the matter went-in reporting Edmund's actions to Peter anyway, considering as soon as she woke up this would all be quite moot, and it would be a pity to have to endure unnecessary frustration in the meantime.

Besides, up till then, before Edmund distracted her, she'd been a little unfocused, not thinking very seriously. Although years later it still held the power to make her go white with anger at her own stupidity and feel an urge to slap herself, it must be admitted that at the time, she was, for lack of a better word, mooning over the gallant Telmarine King. So poor Ed's choices-good or bad-were not stationed in the front most part of her mind, much easier to brush off than they ought to have been.

And yet it must be also stated that her natural inclination to tenderness and motherly mannerisms half snapped her out of it. In truth, upon seeing how frightened the boy from Charn had been-if only for a split second before realizing she wasn't a threat to his safety-she rather felt as if she should like to cheer him up and soothe him the way she might do if she had a little brother or else if her cousin had not been stolen away and had perhaps grown into a likable person in spite of his name.

"It was terrible," Susan asked softly, "the place where you came from, wasn't it?"

Edmund swallowed hard and blinked.

"Is it true that…that you were living with some sort of witch?" The things one can say in a dream! she thought in her head while speaking these words.

"I'm not plotting against Cair Paravel," mumbled Edmund, his expression tight, laced with a forced-back wince. "And it isn't as if you would know anything about the White Witch anyway, not being Narnian yourself."

"Well, you might tell me about it, then."

"You could tell King Peter," he said, his tone not completely suspicious, but not fully trusting, either. "He wouldn't like it if he knew-well, Caspian's already said plenty anyway, I suppose, but still."

"Tell him what exactly?"

Edmund bit his lower lip then slowly released it. "That I ran away."

"From…" Susan's forehead crinkled as she tried to follow his line of thought, "…from the witch?"

"Mother Jadis," he whispered, shivering with revulsion even at his own mentioning of that name.

Susan couldn't help it; she took a step back and her lip curled into a half-grimace. She, who knew next to nothing about this witch save for what she'd over-heard from Caspian and Peter, could tell, just from Edmund's tone, that where ever Jadis was, a sickly undercurrent of misery always rested. Perhaps, in this dream, it was she, the White Witch, who was not only the queen, but also the _heart_ , of Charn.

"Susan, what's the coldest you've ever been?" Edmund asked. His question seemed a little random, but the unflickering stillness in his serious, unmoved eyes showed that he was still on the same subject.

She thought for a moment, recalling a time once when she had gone out on a very chilly day as a little girl and it had started to snow, and she had taken off her gloves. Young though she'd been, she could still remember the pain of her red-numb hands and the feeling of the winter-wind against her face before she'd gotten indoors again.

When she related this experience to Edmund, however, he shook his head and told her, "You've never been _really_ cold, then."

"What do you mean?"

His eyes darkened a full shade. " _Real_ cold cuts like a knife, only no matter how deep it goes, you never bleed. _Real_ cold can make you feel dead from the inside out-freezing your bones."

" _You've_ been real cold?" Susan's voice was sympathetic.

"Colder even than that." He shuddered at the memories. And being cold wasn't even the worst of it, being whipped and then frozen until he was resting in more pain than could be described even if there were pages and pages about it, made the knives of coldness on their own seem almost lenient.

"Are you really her son?" Susan asked, curious in spite of herself and her convictions. "I mean, did she give birth to you or…"

Edmund scowled, not at Susan, but at the thought of being of the witch's own blood for real-at least that was the one thing he had, that he'd been adopted and not spawned. Being the son of Jadis for real might have been akin to being the off-spring of a devil or even of the Calormene's Tash (of who, Edmund knew precious little about, considering that Tash dwelled in the south while Jadis liked to keep Charn circulating around northern countries).

"No, she used to tell me she saved me as a baby, and I believed her when I was little, but after a while I figured she might have simply snatched me from anywhere. She never struck me as the sort of person who'd _want_ to save a baby; so I thought she might have even killed my parents-whoever they were-and then just taken me for some unexplainable reason. She's rarely ever in the mood to take prisoners instead of just killing whomever might stand in her way; and she doesn't bother with formalities. I don't think she would have left a changeling in my place, so either my parents never cared that I was taken, or else-more likely-they're dead."

"That's horrid!" Susan thought this was all a perfectly dreadful thing for her to dream up and felt rather vexed at herself for doing so. That poor, poor boy! Think of being cold and miserable and raised by a witch just like the heroes and heroines in the old fairy-tales she'd never given any real thought to before now-never cared a fig about. How was she to know that one day her dreams would plunge her into the very core of one?

"She gave me this," -Edmund motioned at the medallion in his hand- "a very long time ago, I hadn't thought to remove it when I ran away-though now I wish I had."

"Peter doesn't need to know." She looked both ways to be sure no one else was listening in. "You could just put it back."

Edmund's face softened in relief. "Thanks."

"Where did you take it from?"

"His bed-chamber," Edmund admitted, not without a slight flush of shame, "in the little satchel next to where he keeps his sword and crown when he doesn't need them."

"I don't want to know how you know that," Susan said disapprovingly.

"I'm not against Narnia." Edmund felt he had to defend himself, even if Susan didn't appear to be judging him. "Really, I'm not. I didn't even know this _was_ Narnia before Lucy told me when I woke up bathed and bandaged in her chamber-you heard what I said, you were there."

"It's all right, Edmund, I remember," she reassured him. "Just put the medallion back and we'll pretend this never happened. I think Caspian's misjudged you."

"Perhaps," said Edmund, "but…I…I wasn't exactly the best kind of person…before…before I decided to run away…there were days when…but I didn't want to, to be like that, not really."

"I'll see if the coast is clear." Susan stuck her head out into the corridor and looked round.

At first, she saw no one at all and was prepared to tell Edmund that he could try stuffing the medallion into his pocket and walking out there now, but then there was the sound of giggling growing closer and Susan could tell that someone was coming towards them.

It was a group of about twelve sweetly-impish-faced dryads and wood nymphs crossing from one side of the marble hall to the other. They were dark-haired with fair skin, and they seemed as light of heart as they were of foot. Susan wouldn't have been at all surprised if they turned out to be the same ones that wore out their dancing slippers so often. Although none of the ladies-Susan now saw that there were also a few fauns walking and joking merrily at their sides, Tumnus among them-appeared to be wearing bells or clinking metal-bracelets on their hands or feet, there was still a sense of light, almost-musical ringing about them as they passed.

Their dresses were single garments of moonlight-white, very like nightgowns; and if they were human girls and not mythical creatures of the wild, tamed only by their allegiance to serve Narnia at Cair Paravel, they would likely have been ridiculed for going about 'scantily clad'. There are different rules for different species. Tumnus, for example, never wore a proper tunic-nor even a doublet or jerkin-in all his life. A red muffler was sufficient for wintertime and a scarf of forest-green velvet fringed with real gold-thread sufficed for the spring and summer. And there wasn't a soul alive who would have thought, even in passing, that this was abnormal or indecent.

The merry party slipped into a chamber, bidding the fauns goodbye. Tumnus turned and went the other way, for now that his moment of giddy playfulness was over, he remembered he had many duties to attend to.

Then Susan was able to tell Edmund his path was clear. Anxiously, he stuffed the medallion back into his doublet pocket and crept out of the door as if he were afraid that the moment he stepped into the open, everyone would be standing there, demanding to know what he had been up to. But there was no one at all, and even if the previously-passing party _had_ seen him, there is a good chance they wouldn't have thought anything of him at all, much less actually confronted him regarding his actions.

While Edmund was making his way to the high king's chamber, hoping none of the servants-for in spite of his fine attempts to steer clear of even the most unimportant members of the court, he had passed a few of these and had even said hello to one or two of them, praying inwardly that his voice did not sound guilty-would ask why he was heading for that part of the castle (they probably all thought he was simply going on his way to visit Lucy), Peter and Caspian sat in the throne room playing a game of chess. Caspian had won the last two games, but Peter was clearly only a few moves away from putting the King of Telmar in checkmate this time.

"I am sorry to interrupt your Majesties," said Tumnus, entering the room (this was about four or five minutes after Susan saw him in the corridor with the dryads), "but I was speaking with the dryads earlier and they mentioned something about a fairy-visitor. Because of how flighty the wood-nymphs can be, as you know, I had more or less put it out of my head until a moment ago when such a visitor arrived-with a message for you, King Peter."

They noticed now that in Tumnus's out-stretched hand sat a little person, a maiden perhaps the size of a grown-man's thumb with an acorn-top for a cap and little strands of golden-gossamer hair falling out of it down to the middle of her tiny back. She was dressed in a two part skirt-and-bodice gown of a rich crimson colour with a white sash tied round the middle of it to show that she was a messenger-and peaceful, meaning them no harm or ill-will.

"Greetings, fairy," said Peter, looking up from the gold chessmen.

Standing up very straight in Tumnus's palm, she lifted her elegant skirt (it appeared to be made of some sort of raised brocade-like fabric, but the texture was more similar to velvet) and curtsied prettily. Then Tumnus had to hold her up to his ear so he could hear her message and translate it to the high king. She was a bush fairy-which is the smallest kind of fairy-and bush fairies of course don't speak very clearly, their teeny throats not carrying well, except for in their own language. Most persons can't understand them, but fauns-and especially Tumnus-were known for being able to do so.

"She says: 'all greetings to you, high king of Narnia-and to you, king of Telmar. I've come to report that my lady-a fairy of greater ranking than I-has seen the white stag in the western woods of your country and wished for me to inform you at once, lest he move on to other lands before you've a chance to catch him'."

The white stag, for those who may be unfamiliar with the legend, is a pure creature of grace and enchanting wonder; he is said to be able to give wishes to whomever catches him, and it has long been considered a royal privilege in many of the northern countries in the world Narnia belongs to to seek this stag-to hunt him, though not for killing, which would be a capitol offence-in grand parties. Although it is true that precious few persons have ever actually _caught_ the white stag, it is noteworthy to point out that such romps after him usually resulted in woodland picnics and songs and cheerful campfires, and many other things that are the making of good, lasting, happy memories. Also, surely you can imagine how even the thought of one person having caught the stag a long time ago (how long doesn't matter) and getting wishes can set the imaginations of others ablaze.

"Shall we seek the stag, King Peter?" asked Caspian, thankful both for the exciting news and for the opportunity to forget all about the chess game he was about to lose.

"Yes, I daresay it would be a fine idea," Peter said, standing up and grinning at the thought, not so much of a hunt but, rather, of fun days outdoors in the warm sunshine and Lucy riding on her pony and laughing happily, and the rest of the court enjoying the trip as well (it would be a rather long one at that, since Cair Paravel was located in the east). "I'll go up to my chamber and collect my sword before making the court preparations."

Up in the high king's chamber, Edmund was just about to slide the medallion back into the satchel when he heard the door opening and stuffed it back into his pocket, flinging himself under Peter's bed, hoping the long silk-and-velvet, scarlet-threat-fringed comforter would conceal him.

Peter, in a joyful mood, was whistling lightly to himself as he walked over and picked up his sword, strapping it to his hip.

Take it and go, thought Edmund anxiously, that way I can still put the medallion back and you won't be cross or have a reason to suspect me of anything.

But alas Peter did nothing of the sort. Worse, he picked up the satchel as if he intended to take that with him, too. There was a half-and-half chance that he would forget his crown, perhaps, but that wouldn't do Edmund any good either way. It was the satchel he needed to get at.

Because he was so nervous, Edmund didn't notice Peter accidentally kicking a dust bunny under the bed into his general direction. It was instantly fatal; he sneezed and the high king flung back the edge of the comforter.

"Who's there?"

Edmund's face was white as a sheet and he was trembling, though Peter couldn't see this completely since he was half-hidden by the shadows of the bed. He could, however, see him well enough to tell who he was, but, to Edmund's surprise, he didn't seem even the slightest bit angry.

"Oh, it's you!" he said, actually looking rather relieved. "You gave me a bit of a fright there for a moment. Are you playing hide-and-seek with Lucy again?"

"I…" stammered Edmund, realizing that the king didn't suspect him of breaking into his chambers to steal, plot, or plunder; he thought he was simply playing a game-a children's game. This whole sensation, of being thought of as a nearly-innocent child up to no badness, was so shocking to him that he was rendered speechless even as his fear slowly subsided.

"Well, it's no matter now, you can come out of there," Peter told him. "The court is going on a trip all together, to the great forests of the west, so we can hunt after the white stag." He was fairly certain that every northern-bred boy knew about the white stag, even one who was from Charn like Edmund, so he didn't have to explain. "Lucy will be coming along, too, no doubt. We'll have to get you a horse, you're a mite too big for a pony."

In spite of himself, Edmund wanted to make a sarcastic comment regarding ponies-thinking the fact that he was too tall for one was bluntly obvious and should have been a given, not a spoken statement, but he was too busy catching his breath and willing his beating heart to slow down for that.

There was no opportunity for the boy from Charn to slip the medallion back into Peter's satchel, yet he tried everything he could think of-even walking as close to the king as he dared so that he might have a chance of dropping it in while they were going down the corridor. But courtiers kept on walking by and they wouldn't have stood for him putting anything into the satchel of their leader, lest it be something dangerous. So he knew he couldn't risk it.

Down in the stables, Susan was being given a splendid white horse with a gray muzzle and beautiful, almost husky-like eyes. He a gentle gelding so lovely and tender in appearance that upon looking at him you at once wanted to throw your arms around his neck and pet his mane, kissing his soft velvety nose, and to feed him a carrot or a lump of sugar.

Susan was only getting over the shock of having seen the gorgeous beast when she saw how much prettier still he looked once the stable-dwarfs brushed him and two fauns who worked usually at filling the troughs and putting out hay, cleaned his hooves up and shinned his silver shoes till they gleamed. Sadly, her joy was cut short shortly thereafter when she noticed Edmund looking frightened and Peter looking somewhat-nonchalantly into his satchel, packing a few apples and sugar-cubes away for his own horse. She at once understood what was going on; Edmund hadn't been able to put the medallion back in time and now he was going to get into trouble.

Thinking quickly, noticing that the fauns had just tacked up Susan's horse, his mind racing madly, Edmund reached into his pocket, took out the medallion and slipped it between the saddle and saddle-pad.

Susan of course saw him doing this and scowled at him, but she got onto the horse's back and sat there, secretly guarding the medallion, though she barely knew why she was doing so.

Peter then realized that the medallion he'd taken away from Edmond De Charne was gone, and while he disliked doing so immensely, had to warrant a brief search. It was the emblem of the White Witch, who was no friend of any country other than her own and an especial enemy of Narnia, after all, and such precautions were matters of state.

He hoped that he wouldn't find Edmund with it since that would mean he would have to question him and perhaps find fault with him-with someone he was slowly beginning to consider a friend. His relief was great when Caspian reported that it was not found among any of Edmund's things. For the sake of formality, Lucy and the servants all had to be searched, too, even though Peter knew they wouldn't have taken it. He did remember Edmund being alone his chamber just a little while ago, but, considering that they had no proof of his being the culprit, was gladly giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Finally it was Susan's turn to be searched and needless to say she was terrified of their finding out that she was currently more or less sitting on it. Even if it was only a dream, she didn't want them angry with her. She felt vexed with Edmund for not thinking of a better hiding spot, one that didn't put her in jeopardy. And it wasn't as if she could just tell them she saw him put it there, the results would be too horrid for him.

"Susan, could you get off the horse?" asked Peter, sounding tired, his joyfulness all but lost now. "We're just going to continue the search for a little longer before we set off."

He didn't sound very much like he thought he was going to find it, so she hoped he wouldn't be too upset if she refused to get up. "I'd…I'd rather not…"

"You'd rather not what?" Peter's brow crinkled.

"Get up," said Susan, vague and sparing, "just now."

"Why?"

"Um…" Good question, too bad she didn't have an answer for it. "I…"

Everyone was looking at her now.

"Oh…I…" she glanced over at Edmund, wracking her brain, struggling to come up with an excuse. "I'm having my time," she lied, plucking nervously at the chain with the interlocked rings around her neck.

"Your what?" asked Caspian, genuinely confused.

Susan's face went beet-red and she felt she would hate Edmund for ever for putting her through this. Stupid, stupid boy! "My, you know," she looked downwards. "Time…"

"Ew," muttered a dwarf-the first one to catch on.

Peter caught on next, strugging to keep a straight face uncoiled from embarrassment. "You can't get up because of it?"

"I'm tired," she tried. "And I've stained the back of my dress, so I don't want to stand up in front of everybody like this."

"What's she talking about?" Lucy whispered to Edmund. She was too young to have had it explained to her yet (Peter was rather dreading that particular conversation). "What kind of time leaves stains?"

Edmund knew, but he wasn't about to get into it just then. "Be quiet, Lu."

Peter and Susan stared at each other uncomfortably for about three minutes before he finally broke down and said, "Well, she doesn't have the medallion anyway, we all know that. Let's just get the rest of the court gathered up and ready so we can go."

Edmund breathed a sigh of relief.

Susan glared at him and mouthed, "I hate you."

Oh dear, so Susan hated him now, at least she'd helped him out before coming to that conclusion-and Lucy still liked him at any rate. So that was all right.

Once everyone was ready and mounted on their horses, Peter said, "Move out."

Susan sighed to herself as she trailed along behind the court, too humiliated to swallow her pride and ride next to Peter-much less Caspian-thinking this was going to be a very long trip, almost wishing she was staying behind at Cair.

Oh, I do wonder if I really am going to like having so long a dream now that it isn't such fun anymore, she thought glumly.


	7. Into the Forest

Most courtiers who were involved in the royal journey to the woods of the west that year probably enjoyed themselves, though the same cannot quite be said for Susan.

She was a sensitive girl for all her practicalities, and that could-at times-make her a bit silly. For most of the trip, while it was probably not completely true, she was rather under the impression that everybody else thought little of her, or else that she was hiding something. Now, to be entirely fair to anyone who may or may not have suspected her, she actually _was_. Because, you see, she couldn't jolly well tell Edmund to take the medallion out if its hiding place under her horse's saddle and put it into Peter's satchel _now_ , could she? So it was still in her possession; now it was her problem. As if having to look after the rings (she was still adamant about not handing them over to Peter) was not trouble enough, thanks to Edmund, she had the medallion to worry over!

Peter, it might be pointed out, seemed to be the first to notice how off Susan was and he tried particularly hard to go out of his way to be nice to her. Caspian followed his lead, slowly realizing that Susan was making herself left out and feeling sorry for her, and of course Edmund, thankful for what she had done for him, made an effort to mumble something nice to her occasionally. But it was clearly Peter who took the first steps and showed the most overt kindness to her during the long trip.

It was around this time that Susan found herself more drawn to Peter than to Caspian. Caspian was as appealing as ever-nothing about him had changed, and he'd done nothing to warrant her scorn or displeasure, thus gaining none of it. Indeed, the king of Telmar would be someone she would for ever consider a friend (at the time: a nice person in her dream she should dearly miss when she woke up); but her girlish attraction to him was lessening. Perhaps there was a childish inclination within her much-too-grown-up self that thought, "I suppose Peter's the nice one after all" because she appreciated how he acted towards her. And she did begin to feel more and more guilty about keeping the medallion from him. But she was a loyal person and would not give in simply to relieve herself from the strain.

However, there was one instance when she found she was able to make herself useful to him. The whole royal party had been spending the night at an inn that called itself Beruna Inn (which, really, was most peculiar as it wasn't located anywhere near the actual fords of the place in Narnia known as Beruna-but that's another story) and everybody, menservants and courtiers alike, had all gone to their rooms for the evening. All except for Peter who had, being a bit tired as it had been a day involving much uphill riding and handling some arrangements between three feuding dwarfs they'd come across, fallen asleep on one of the couches in the inn's guest parlor.

Susan had stayed behind as well, thinking she would help by gathering up all the tea things (for they had all taken a very late tea an hour or so ago) and bringing them into the kitchen. As it was, she wasn't feeling all that worn-down in comparison with the others and even thought she might offer to help the staff wash up if they could use an extra hand. Just because none of this was real-at least not real in the way most real things were, not like the science and vocabulary and housework kind of real anyway-wasn't a reason to let manners slide.

The manager of the inn was not far off, but he-along with his three daughters-was currently distracted helping a new guest who had arrived carrying a very fine golden goose with gleaming feathers that were strangely sticky.

Peter was having another nightmare about the young lady who he'd heard weeping and crying and seen mostly from behind in so many of his dreams. Later, upon waking, he didn't talk much about what exactly had happened in this specific dream, but judging by the cold sweat on his forehead and the panicked look on his still-sleeping face as Susan reached down and stroked the back of his hand reassuringly, trying to comfort him, one can rightly assume it was pretty bad. Perhaps it was the worst one he'd had up until that point-sparse details put aside for the moment.

"Shh," whispered Susan, about to let go of his hand when he suddenly latched onto hers in his slumber and did not seem at all disposed to letting it go, "it's all right. It's just a dream, you're fine."

Fancy dreaming about a person having a dream-even if it is a nightmare! She thought, uncertain at this point, as to whether this long dream of hers was in fact a nightmare or not. Some parts of it seemed very lovely while others were more discouraging, so it was hard for her to make up her mind in this matter.

He moaned softly, and she moved his slightly-damp blonde bangs from his forehead, whispering in a soothing tone until he calmed down and finally let go of her hand.

When he awoke and saw that she had been staying up with him, he smiled at her and Susan found she was suddenly a bit shy. But before she had the chance to feel truly uncomfortable, Lucy and Edmund came downstairs into the parlor. Evidently, Edmund had talked Lucy-who had woken up and was unable to fall back asleep again-into raiding the kitchen for nighttime snacks, never-minding that their tea hadn't been that long ago (boys are always hungry, it seems, and Lucy was _growing_ , so this wasn't such a surprising occurrence), and the parlor was on the way.

Peter thought of boxing Edmund's ears and he did give him a light cuff upside the head, not a sharp one to hurt him, but just to remind him to keep himself out of disgrace, and sent the children upstairs again, though he did slip them both left-over tea-cakes and the corner of one his eyes twitched a bit into what might have been a wink.

All children, even the sort that are castle-bred, lack the ability to go down a corridor and stairs quietly, so of course others had been woken now, too, and the high king had pages and menservants-and Tumnus, who it seemed had always been a mixture of both-to escort him to his room for the night.

But he did not forget Susan so readily, bidding her a tender-voiced goodnight and secretly fighting back the urge he wished he didn't feel because he knew it was thoroughly hopeless to kiss her cheek, contenting himself with her hand instead, since that could be passed off as simple kingly formality.

What he might not have noticed was that Susan blushed when he did so, looking away 'modestly' to hide it.

Tumnus noticed. "High King," he whispered when the other servants had left them and he was attending to Peter by himself, "I know it is not my place to say this, but, well, about Susan Pevensie…"

"Pish," scoffed Peter, rolling his eyes, knowing what Tumnus was working his way up to saying. "I was being courteous-that's what rulers do, Master Tumnus, as you are well aware."

"It just seems to me, your Majesty, that you're starting to admire her a bit more so than courteousness calls for."

"I don't mean to sound pompous, but you're forgetting your place, Tumnus," Peter retorted, a bit more coldly than he should have. For, maybe, deep down he knew Tumnus might not be completely mad; he might have had sound reason to worry, although the high king wouldn't admit it.

Tumnus ached a brow, lightly scuffing one of his cloven-hooves against the wooden floor pensively. "I think she likes you, too."

"You do?" Peter blurted out before regaining his senses and realizing how that sounded. "Not that I care," he amended-in spite of his best intentions, rather pompously-unable to look the faun directly in the eyes for a moment. "I simply was under the impression that she was rather smitten with King Caspian, and it strikes me as interesting that you hadn't noticed."

"Your Majesty isn't blind," said Tumnus, making sure the water in the basin by the bed-side was clean and that there was a neatly folded towel-also properly cleaned-next to it so that the king would be all set in the morning. "Certainly you've noticed that she's started paying more attention to _you_ as of late."

"How interesting," replied Peter, trying to sound disinterested; "I hadn't noticed." This was not strictly true; he had been a little clueless in regards to this, which Tumnus noticed clear as day, but he hadn't completely missed every single sign of her paying more attention to him than usual.

Tumnus blinked. "Your Majesty, I want nothing more than to serve you honourably. What's more, I want you to be happy, I do care about you, but I feel it is also my duty to say something to you now."

"And what is that?"

"Two words should suffice in getting my point across, I think." His face became a little sad, wishing he did not have to bring up this reminder-wishing the reality of the situations at hand were otherwise. But, unfortunately, they weren't. "North-Western Ettinsmoor, your Majesty."

"By the Lion's mane!" exclaimed the high king indignantly. "I gave them my word and I intend to keep it-you know that, I know that, for pity's sake, even Caspian knows it! There is nothing between me and Susan Pevensie. Thus, there is nothing for you-or for them-to worry about."

"Not yet," said Tumnus warily.

"You may be the elder," said Peter in a clenched, unpleasant tone, "but you are still my subject and very, very out of line."

"If you will be in no further need of my services for the night," said Tumnus, sort of quietly, obviously a little more distraught than he let on, "I will be retiring to my own place for the night…I shouldn't like to forget it, speaking out of line."

"I'm sorry." Peter gave the faun a weak, apologetic smile. "I'm just…tired, that's all. I've only been a little tired."

"Nightmares, then?" His tone was more at ease now.

"Do people ever randomly glow?"

"Not humans, I don't think. Stars, perhaps." Tumnus wondered why he was asking that; it struck him as an odd question and an even odder answer to his own statement.

"Well, Lucy said I-" Peter began, shaking his head and letting his voice trail off. "Nothing, never-mind. Sorry I snapped at you, I know you're only trying to help, and I do appreciate that."

"I know, Sire."

"You don't have to worry about North-Western Ettinsmoor, though, Master Tumnus," Peter assured him, locking a firm, steady stare on his long-time adviser, servant, and friend. "Really."

"If you say so, your Majesty," sighed the faun, bending his goat-joints into a bow and then waiting for the high king's nod of dismissal, which came after a brief pause.

Tumnus was mistaken, wasn't he? As Peter laid there in bed, quite awake, he hated how uncertain he felt. It wasn't as if he didn't care about Susan, he did; but that didn't mean that it went any further than simple friendship-or that it ever would. Did it?

After the stop at Beruna Inn, the rest of the trek seemed to go a good deal faster and before they knew it, the whole lot of them were seated on their horses together outside of the start of a great dense forest, the kind that one never saw the likes of in the east.

They were all, Susan and Edmund included, dressed in beautiful hunting garb made of the sort of cloth that felt as nice as it looked and made sweet rustling noses when you moved around in them.

Susan was especially fond of the pale-purple riding-habit she'd been given, thinking it so beautiful that-if only for a passing moment-she found it flat out impossible to believe she had dreamt something like it up. But, surely, she must have as there could be no other logical explanation for all she'd been experiencing, and there were other things to admire besides her own clothing anyway. Lucy had a lovely new hat of winter-green-and-scarlet velvet, its inside lined with silk of a dull black colour. Edmund had a fine white doublet with dark purple thread stitched round the hem and round the sleeves of the under-shift that went with it.

Also, Susan thought Caspian and Peter both looked very handsome-and regal-in their black and brown tunics, their swords and hunting-horns strapped to leather belts at their waists. Peter, she thought, looked especially grand as he had a trained hawk with brown-and-gray feathers and dark gold eyes on one of his arms. He also seemed to keep in his seat just a little straighter than the king of Telmar. It wasn't that Caspian slouched, but he was so over-eager to see everything, having rarely spent any time at all in Western Narnia (most matters of state were handled in the east), that he couldn't seem to stop leaning forward constantly, and by the fifth time he did so, Susan began to feel a little annoyed by it. Peter's movements were less hurried and-she felt-more dignified.

There was a flash of white; the stag was on the move, disappearing into the forest. Caspian put his horn to his lips and blew, signaling for the chase after the magical creature to begin. Lucy giggled and, as her pony was currently standing very close to Edmund's horse, reached up and tugged on her playfellow's sleeve for no apparent reason.

Laughing, Susan shook her head and dug her heels into her horse's side so that she would not fall behind. She didn't worry about Edmund's medallion falling out and getting lost because it was no longer attached to her saddle; she was wearing it round her neck but kept it hidden behind the front of her dress (the silver chain was hidden by her collar).

Little did any of them know what they were about to enter into. The discerning reader, who knows that so many frightening adventures in these sort of tales happen when the characters go into a wood or a forest, will likely not be surprised as they read on in this story. The same cannot be said for the characters themselves. No, as for them, _they_ would be caught unawares.


	8. The Mermaids

It wasn't the twilit hour just yet, but it was drawing near to that purple-haze dusk, and the courtiers were getting worried. Shortly after they had all gone into the forest-along with their high king, the visiting Telmarine king, the founding princess and her playfellow, and of course Susan Pevensie-the white stag had plunged himself into a thicket and could no longer be pursued on horseback.

Thinking that the stag might wind up getting his graceful, yet dangerously extensive, white-gold antlers stuck to a branch or something, and that they might catch him in that manner, Peter and the others had alighted from their horses and wandered into the thicket after it.

Unfortunately, it had been hours since then and they hadn't returned.

Tumnus, who had not gone with them, staying behind with the servants and the vast majority of the courtiers who really cared naught about the stag and were simply there out of duty and the love of a good time, clicked his tongue and said to the others, "Friends, I think someone should be sent to go look for them."

"You go, Master Tumnus," they urged him. "We'll wait here."

"It will be dark soon," said the faun. "Could one of you loan me a good lantern and a wooden flask with a bit of extra oil in it just in case?"

"Why, with a good will!" And they did so.

"If it gets too dark before my return," Tumnus warned them, "and you all begin to fear finding the way out of the forest for yourselves, you must go at the last chance you get before it is passed-we don't want anyone else getting lost, I'm sure. But do wait a bit first."

"We will! We will!" they promised heartily, a few of them shaking his hands, wishing him best of luck and good speed, certain he would find the high king and the others in no time at all. Tumnus, you see, was, though one wouldn't have suspected it, a very good woodsman, having actually been born and raised in the west before coming to Cair Paravel and living amongst those of royal blood, and so knew his way about those dense sort of surroundings.

Meanwhile, Susan moved a thick bramble out of her way and, glancing back over her shoulder, shot Peter a rather scornful expression, thinking this largely to be his fault and wishing she had dreamed up a high king with a better sense of direction.

"I do believe we're lost," she said finally, her tone terse.

"Su," said Lucy, noticing how cross and irritable Peter's face turned when he realized Susan was blaming him, "don't nag at Peter like that! It wasn't his fault at all!"

"Well, don't you snap at Susan like that, either," put-in Edmund, who thought he rather agreed with Susan more than otherwise; they had all been following Peter, after all. It wasn't as though the high king had _meant_ to get them lost, that was true, but still. "She isn't _wrong_."

"Yes she is."

Edmund scowled. "No she isn't."

"Is so," retorted Lucy, putting her hands on her hips.

"Is no-" began Edmund, not to be out-argued or out-grumbled in the matter, before Peter cut him off.

"Both of you be quiet, please!" he said in a strained voice, putting his hand to his forehead. "I'm getting a headache."

Caspian had yet to speak, keeping whatever his thoughts were at the time largely to himself, and so at the moment he was Peter's favourite.

"I do wish we could get out of these dratted woods!" grumbled Susan, rolling her eyes. "The light's getting less and less."

"I can see that," Peter reminded her.

"I think…" she ignored him and peeked down into what she hoped was a real path and not one of the many false paths lost people always seemed to stumble across; "…that might be the way back…but, no, I don't exactly remember that way."

"That's the problem with girls," Edmund muttered, though loudly enough so they all heard him anyway, stepping over a small log, "they can't carry a map in their heads."

"That's because _our_ heads have something in them," said Lucy, on Susan's side now, noticing that Peter had smirked at that distasteful comment in spite of his mounting headache.

Caspian chuckled and took a step forward. In the ever-dimming light, almost more black than purple now, it was getting harder and harder to see where they were going; and suddenly Caspian, a little ahead of the rest, cried out, "Watch for the lake!"

"What lake?" asked Peter, wrinkling his nose and fighting back a very unkingly yawn.

"Two feet ahead." Caspian motioned with his chin.

Sure enough, there was a lake. At first it appeared shallow, little more than a puddle, but as you looked on it and blinked you could tell it was much bigger than that. Presumably, when the moon came out one would be able to see the whole lake spanning a distance equal to about half a medium-sized meadow.

"What's a lake doing in a thicket?" Susan demanded practically.

"We're not in a thicket anymore," said Edmund, "goodness knows we haven't been for hours and hours at least-I thought everyone knew we had left it the wrong way and had just come out into a denser wood."

"You might have mentioned that a bit sooner!" exclaimed Peter, shaking his head in disbelief. "If I'd known that then I'd have probably been able to retrace our steps from that point-you really ought to have spoke up, Ed."

"Sorry," he muttered sullenly.

"Well this is a pretty kettle of fish!" Peter sat down on what he hoped was a tree-stump or else an oddly-shaped boulder because, really, it was getting hard to tell for sure.

"We will all have to camp here, I suppose," sighed Caspian. "Or, at least, wait here until the moon comes out."

"There may be clouds," Susan chimed in unhelpfully.

"Dash the clouds!" grumbled Edmund, folding his arms across his chest.

"Isn't it cold?" Lucy realized, wondering if Edmund had folded his arms out of frustration or simply because he wanted to keep warm. Not that this kind of mild, late-hour coldness bothered him very much, considering that he had known _real_ cold in a way the rest of them hadn't.

Peter, of course, as could only be expected, took off his jerkin even though the tunic under it was not quite so warm as he would have liked, and put it over little Lucy's shoulders.

"I say!" Susan's eyes widened as a sliver of the rising moon peeked out from a thin, streaky black cloud and cast a ray of pearly light on the lake. "What is that sort of head over in the distance? An otter, perhaps?"

"It's coming closer," said Edmund uneasily; he did not think it was an otter, but it certainly was the head of something-Susan was not mistaken about _that_.

Squinting, Peter studied the head as it came closer, and though he wasn't quite sure, he said, "I think it's one of the merfolk."

The head went under again, and Lucy, who hadn't gotten a very good view of it at all, being the furthest away, cried out, "Oh, hurray! They'll be kind, just like the mermaids who swim in the eastern sea; they sang songs at your coronation! Don't you remember, Peter? They'll tell us the way."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Lu," warned Peter; "these might be of a different sort-and, look! There's more of them now-that's two-maybe three-heads over there, it looks like."

After seeing the mermaids-even while she thought she was still only dreaming-Susan always found herself unable to fathom how sailors fell so deeply in love with these creatures that they were willing to fling themselves off of ships into the ocean and drown for their sake. They weren't anything like the mermaids one can sometimes hear a drunken seaman prattling on about. Their tails were not a glittering silver but, rather, a dark, shimmering-almost metallic-midnight blue; and their long hair was a rough coppery-red colour, not white-blonde; none of them seemed to have any interest in staring into mirrors or sitting on rocks, gazing longingly at the human (well, partly anyway) countries. There was one merman amongst the mermaids, only his hair was green instead of copper.

When they had swum quite close, their dark-purple lips parting slightly, you could see that they had sharper teeth than humans did and that they thought nothing of baring them.

Perhaps because she thought of them as little more than bogeymen-not real and so not truly dangerous, something she was too old to be frightened by-it was Susan who dared to remain close to the edge of the lake.

Nervously, Peter crept up behind her, never taking his eyes off of the water, his hand on his sword-hilt-just in case.

One of the mermaids stretched out her left hand, slowly reaching towards Susan's wrist.

Susan watched, with fascination instead of fear, as the hand came nearer and nearer. In her defense, it really was a most remarkable hand; the fingers were so incredibly long and between each one was a thin webbing like a fish's fin or a duck's feet. When it made contact with her own hand, it felt cool and smooth like a pebble from the bottom of the sea-bed, and not at all slimy or frog-like as she'd thought it might.

Then the grip was slightly tighter and her wrist felt as though it was cramping up on her; searing pain rushed up and down her arm worse than any bruise she'd ever felt. But, alas, by the time she realized what was happening, long before she even felt the pull along with the pain, it was too late.

Half of her body was more or less dangling over the edge of the lake and the mermaid kept on pulling so that she would surely be yanked in no matter how hard she protested.

She wanted to cry out, "Let go!" but her lips felt stiff and paralyzed. Oh, this _was_ a nightmare after all, wasn't it? For she had never known a person could feel this afraid of anything while they knew-deep down-that they were only lying in their beds safe and sound. She would have given nearly anything to wake up right then and there, even if it meant leaving behind all of her new friends and all of the interesting things she'd seen. Logic told her that if she could only wake, she would be free of the leering creature and her horrible teeth and evil grip, no longer hovering over a lake that looked so black in the night, and losing all this wonder was a small price to pay in return for that. In return for a welcome back into the world of sense and normality.

It was lucky for Susan that, although she hadn't realized what was happening in time, Peter had, lunging forward to rescue her. His saving her was not at all surprising, but what _was_ shocking about the whole situation was how he went about it. He didn't pull out his sword and attempt to lop off the mermaid's head with it, nor did he grab onto Susan and try to pull her free of the creature's grasp through force. No, instead, not in his senses, his blue eyes twinkling sharply, he reached out over the lake and put his own hand over the mermaid's webbed-fingers.

The mermaid turned and looked at him, hissing warningly like a rattle-snake in the grass will shake its rattle to warn its enemies before it strikes. Their eyes met and locked and they seemed-absurd as it was-to be communicating without speaking any words. When the mermaid still would not yield to him, would not let go of Susan's wrist, intent-apparently-on drowning her, Peter's hand turned a funny chalky colour and then began to glow like starlight.

Susan couldn't feel a thing, and that's what she told everyone when they asked her about it later, but the mermaid must have felt some sort of burning heat-or light-blasting through her because she whimpered, hissed again, and slowly started to release her grip on her prey.

Due to the fact that she was already so far over the lake, Susan began to fall in, teetering dangerously on what was so far off the land that it could just barely even be called 'the edge'. Just then, however, Peter's arm shot out and he pulled her back. They landed on the grass, him pressed against her side, his arm wrapped around her waist.

They rested like that only for a moment before the merfolk had all vanished from sight again and Caspian, Edmund, and Lucy all rushed over to help them up.

When they all talked it over later, Edmund-who knew more about enchantments from personal experience than the rest of them did-said they must have all been bewitched by the presence of the merfolk since none of them were able to move and help Susan the entire time, though they saw clear as anything what was happening to her. Peter, for some reason, had been able to resist whatever had grasped at the hearts of the others, yet as they got him up on his feet again once they were sure he and Susan were both mostly unharmed, he found he didn't remember any of it.

Oh, he remembered the mermaid all right. And he did recall wanting to help Susan and putting his hand on the hilt of his sword clearly enough. It was the other stuff that was a bit fuzzy; he hadn't even the faintest recollection of staring-down the mermaid or blasting her hand with radiating light from his own. The first time Caspian and Edmund brought it up, he thought they were joking. Then Susan and Lucy both claimed to have seem him do it, too. Susan's testimony was especially important as she had been the one with the best view of the occurrence. But it didn't matter how much they prodded, he couldn't even force the vaguest hint of a memory out of his mind regarding it.

Eventually they all had to find a place to sleep for the night (you can be sure they made certain that they laid down at least a mile or two away from the lake despite the fact that it meant an extra-long hike with glazed eyes that could barely stay open). When Peter, the last of the five to nod off, finally fell asleep, he had the dream again; but this time it was different. This time, the lady turned and looked right at him and he saw her face full-on; she was remarkably beautiful in a way that most pretty people aren't. She was the sort of maiden who made a person wonder if they had even known what beauty really meant before they'd seen her. What Peter chiefly noticed though, good-looks put aside as for some reason they did not seem terribly important, was that she was still frightened.

"Help me," she said softly, her tone very like she was holding back a good cry. "Please help me."

"How?" whispered Peter, surprised to find he could speak. "How can I help you?"

"You're getting closer," was all she would say. "Don't forget me when you get there, all right? Promise you'll get me out of here."

Peter's brow crinkled. This was an extraordinary thing for her to say seeing as they both appeared to be standing in the middle of the forest together, dream or not, and there was no way of guessing what she meant by 'getting there' or 'get me out of here'. Where was 'here'? He didn't know.

Upon waking, the high king did not find himself all at once breathless, only a little strained and thirsty; which was how everyone was feeling that morning. Thus they went looking for a stream.

It was Lucy who found it unwittingly, just as Susan was beginning to think she would be sure to perish of thirst and wake up through that means.

The little foundling princess mulled in a small, surprised voice, "What's that? It's long and silvery-can you see it, Peter?"

Edmund answered before Peter got his bearings. "A stream! Oh, Lu, you found one!"

"And it's just over the next bend there, judging by the way the hill goes!" Caspian exclaimed gratefully.

"Lu, you're a hero," said Peter, grinning.

Susan said nothing to voice her pleasure, but she was clearly happy with Lucy's innocently happening on the stream, too, as it mean she would get a drink.

It's far stranger, thought she, to be horribly thirsty in a dream than it is to be mortal hungry; and I thought nothing could be worse-or more peculiar. I really shall have to put this all in a book some day, whether or not people think I am a madwoman for it!

Once they were at the stream, Edmund and Lucy wasted no time wadding by the edges, bending over to get their drinks. No, they merely threw themselves in. The forest seemed a very different place in the morning-light, not so scary or perilous, and neither of them was thinking about mermaids or night-ghasts, or anything else of that sort, as they splashed each other and swallowed mouthfuls of fresh water by turn.

Peter and Caspian proved a little more cautious, but not so much as Susan thought kings ought to be. They studied the water before dipping their hands down into it; and Peter scolded Lucy for jumping in like that before they knew it was all right, and told Edmund he should have known better, too, but that was the full extent of it, really. Shortly after, both the king of Narnia and the king of Telmar had splashed their faces with cold water and were enjoying themselves as immensely as if they were two mere young boys. One would have never guessed by watching them at that moment that they both bore the weight of whole countries on their shoulders.

Remembering the unfortunate incident with the mermaids, Susan didn't want to go near the water at first and asked if Peter had a canteen he could fill up and bring to her. Edmund thought this was rot and very high-and-mighty of her, and said so, laughing aloud at her self-importance, which made her cross when she thought about how she had stood up for _him_. But it was a moot question in the end because Peter hadn't any canteen to begin with, having left it on his horse's saddle when they'd gone into the thicket, and that was that.

She was left with no choice but to bend her head down and scoop up the water in her hands and quench her thirst on her own. Even when she was finally satisfied that it was safe, she still didn't want to wade into the water with the others, thinking it a most inappropriate time for a bathe, and she sat watching them until they were done.

"We'd best be moving on," said the high king.

"I don't want to put my shoes back on my feet," Lucy told him as he was helping her out of the stream. "I want to go bare-foot."

"Me too," said Edmund, thinking how refreshing that would be.

"Don't be so _mad_ ," Susan snorted, indignant with the children. "The both of you! Really! Fancy mess you'd be in if you lost your shoes because you were carrying them; and you'll want them again if it gets colder."

"Susan's right, Lucy," Peter sighed. "You'd both best put on your shoes again."

"When we get back to Cair," Lucy decided, a bit disappointed in the outcome, "I'm not going to wear any shoes for a whole week."

"We'll see," said Peter, his tone the sort that many grown-ups use when that phrase is another term for, 'no you're not'.


	9. Dreams and Dragons

They had been wandering the forest well into the late afternoon and were, of course, despairing of finding their way out before dark. Caspian thought, though he didn't say so, that they were only getting even more lost for all their pains. Susan thought so, too, and _did_ actually voice her opinion until Peter, irritated to no end, told her to shut up.

"I don't see how we can get _more_ lost than we already are anyway," said Lucy cheerfully. "When you're lost, you're lost-isn't that how it works?"

"No," said Edmund; he did not add anything further because he was starting to feel a bit nervous without knowing exactly why and did not want the others to notice. Not speaking-or, rather, speaking as little as possible-until the feeling passed, seemed the easiest route to concealment.

But the feeling was not going to pass, it turned out. It was only going to get worse. The reason? Suddenly a sharp howling noise that may be hard to identify if you've never heard it before, but is thoroughly unmistakable if you have (all the more so if you have as many times as Edmund had), echoed through the nearest trees to their right.

Lucy, who'd heard it once before though she had been very, very small, winced and looked to Edmund; he had gone white, his whole faced drained of all blood.

"Run," he said.

Peter grabbed Lucy's hand, for he now understood what it was that had made Edmund's face so dejected: wolves.

The next few moments were a blur of running and panting and knowing it wasn't safe to stop. The girls and Caspian all got their hair whipped into their mouths and hadn't the time to stop and pull the wind-blown strains out (Peter and Edmund both had short-cropped hair so that wasn't a problem for them). Edmund found he had a sore knee and was worried he might have pulled something, but there was nothing else to be done except to possibly make it worse by running harder still. He would simply have to deal with whatever the current pain resulted in.

Edmund, you see, once again knew what the others couldn't have; that these were not strictly Narnian wolves gone wicked, nor the dumb, wild-born beasts that were more common in the west. No, he recognized the pack leader's howl as distinctly as a school-boy from our world knows what his bully's voice sounds like. He knew it was Maugrim; the same creature who had slashed open his stomach before he'd found his way to Cair Paravel. The pack had crossed the moving border and had either not gone back or else had crossed it again. Neither situation differed, so it didn't matter. All that mattered was that the White Witch's wolves were after him. Worse, they were after _them_ , maybe.

Edmund's knee began to throb more and more intensely until he could hardly stand it; and he had a stitch in his side. The cut-though mostly healed-on his stomach was put under a lot of pressure from the hard running and the impossibly heavy breathing that resulted from it, and started to hurt, too.

He could scarcely keep up with the others, and although Lucy and Peter tried to turn round and come back for him when they saw him lagging behind, he shook his head, urging them to keep going. In all likelihood, if Peter had been by himself he would have ignored Edmund's signals and gone back and helped him anyway, but both of them cared so much for Lucy who-on her short little legs-couldn't possibly out-run the wolves without assistance, that neither of them could bear putting her in danger, no matter the cost. Indeed, there were tears in Peter's eyes as he realized, even as it happened all in one passing moment, that he himself could do nothing for Edmund-hoping desperately that Caspian could-and had to press on without the Charn refugee.

Caspian had a better opportunity to give Edmund a hand, and certainly he did his best, running back and trying to help the boy to his feet, but he heard a scream (from Susan) and Edmund insisted he go and help her, even if it meant leaving him to the mercy of Maugrim when he finally caught up.

What had happened was that Susan, having no sense of where she was going, only that she was running with much more vigor than any human ought to be forced into and that her breath was caught-up in her cheek, had fallen behind everyone except for Edmund. Then the pack of wolves had thought apparently to encircle their prey by sending two of them (Maugrim and one of his many under-dogs) charging round, not from behind but from the front which could be managed by going a certain path one could call a short-cut despite the fact that it was a bit less complicated that than term would suggest.

Maugrim snarled at Susan who yelped and made a dash for a tree. Her face nearly whiter even than Edmund's had been; her lips trembling with the words, 'wake up, please wake up'; she sat quivering on a low branch.

Peter, standing a ways off with Lucy, having finally had to stop and catch his breath, saw her, swallowed back a gasp and thought she was a fool not to have gotten higher or at least gripped the branch she had swung onto tighter. Then he realized it wasn't stupidity; she was simply frightened out of her wits. And she was going to faint. And if she fainted…the wolf's snapping jaws…oh, by the Lion, he did not want to think about _that_!

Oddly enough, not even Maugrim had gone after Edmund by this point. And yet, he stood, panting, holding onto the side of his stomach, grimacing in fake-assurance to Caspian that he was 'all right' so that he would leave him and go help Susan.

It quite baffled them at the time as to why exactly Maugrim had singled out Susan since she'd had no connection to Charn and there appeared to be no reason the wolves (or, more importantly, the White Witch) would want _her_ , but by the end of all their adventures they had come to what even Susan had to admit was a sensible-and very likely-conclusion. Simply, the medallion. Susan was, at the time, wearing Edmund's medallion which smelled-to the wolves-of Charn. Now it wasn't that they thought she was Edmund (for, you see, Maugrim was far more clever than that); but they did think because of the Charn smell that she was someone they were supposed to get at, too. Edmund wasn't up to par as far as speed went at the moment, and they knew that; might as well get the girl first, then him. On a side-note, one might rightly wonder why the talking animals back at Cair Paravel had not smelled the medallion on Susan's horse during the search their high king had launched for it. Well, it was such an evil sort of smell that unless you know evil, unless you know true misery-and love it, or at least condone it apathetically-it isn't so easy to sort out. That must be the reason.

Anyway, not sure if Caspian would be able to fight off the wolves by himself, getting to Susan in time, and as he was now next to a tall tree with thick knobby branches, Peter set Lucy on the closest branch and told her to climb up as high as she could. He knew she was a strong climber, more accustomed to the sort of thing from practice than Susan was, and trusted that she would be safe once she got into the higher branches. What was more, with the extra assistance, if they were very lucky, they might save both Edmund and Susan at once if only they could be sure of getting the two of them in closer rage so that the wolves were unable to use the distance to their advantage.

It was Lucy, having followed Peter's directions to the best of her ability, who got the best view of what happened next. Caspian hadn't made it to Susan's tree yet and was still standing closer to Edmund. Peter had slid down a small, slanted path of mud and dry leaves while trying to pull his sword out of its scabbard; finally he found himself sore all over, standing on slightly bend legs, holding the sword out in front of Maugrim.

Maugrim grunted. Peter lunged threateningly. Edmund tried to stand up and nudge Caspian forward so that it wasn't just one king against two wolves. Then Lucy saw, as clearly as she saw the confusion with the others, the rest of the wolves beginning to close in from the distance.

"Oh no!" screamed the foundling princess in dismay, knowing this would turn a hard situation into an impossible one.

Although Caspian, Peter, and very likely, Edmund, all _heard_ Lucy's cry first, it was Susan who registered it the quickest and shouted, "Peter, watch out!" just one of the approaching wolves was crouching to spring at him. He leapt out of the way just in time.

Nothing else for it, Edmund put his hand to his aching stomach and grabbed a nearby rock.

"Oh, this is familiar," laughed Maugrim, when he saw him approaching.

"Don't hurt them," said Edmund, holding the rock up as threateningly as he could manage. "I'm the one you want. I'm the one _she_ wants."

"These wolves are from Charn," murmured Peter. Up till then, unlike Edmund, he had been unaware of this fact. "The White Witch's wolves."

"You may think you're a king," snarled Maugrim, ignoring his mistress's adopted son for now and looking Peter square in the eye, "but you're going to die like-"

But whatever simile the wolf was about to make, it wasn't going to be finished, because a dark shadow passed over the area, droning out the creature's thoughts. Susan really did faint this time, falling off of her branch, but Caspian was nearer by this point and managed to catch her as the wolves were momentarily too frightened to do so. Lucy screamed; Edmund swallowed hard; Peter winced and took a staggering step backwards, gaping up at a pair of great, bat-like wings as they brought the horrible _thing_ closer and closer.

It was a dragon. Real-as-corn, ugly as sin, dark scales and big eyes roughly the colour of marshlands; so hideous was this great lizard (if it is not disrespectful to refer to a mighty dragon as such) that the wolves all panicked and took off. The five humans were so frightened that they couldn't move. Susan came to a few minutes later and would have passed out again at the sight of him if Caspian had not set her up-right onto her feet and gripped her arm tightly so that she didn't collapse.

The dragon landed and stood staring at them for a moment. There was something piteous about his face that-while he was still frightening, a monster cut off from the safe parts of the world-made you want to be sorry for him, and maybe even, as Lucy wished when she saw him up close at a later time, to kiss his dark, coarse cheek and comfort him. Somehow it was a him, and not an it. They all knew this without being told and none of them felt the need to ask the others why this was so.

Perhaps because Peter was still holding out his sword, the dragon, despite the fact that he was big enough to have swallowed each of them whole if he got the notion, and the fact that he'd just more or less saved them from a pack of evil wolves, became nervous and wouldn't settle. He kept shifting from graceless foot to graceless foot until finally he could bear it no longer. Then the wings flapped again and he lifted himself into the air.

"We must have just imagined him," said Susan softly, catching her breath. "Or else he's was a sort of thing in my dream like the rest of you, only I've woken from that part already."

Caspian rolled his eyes.

"Are you all right?" Peter asked, seeing how pale and shaky she remained.

"Fine," she told him. "Thanks for…well, coming to try and save me like that."

"I'm sorry," Edmund mumbled (Susan thought he was trying not to cry). "They were…looking for me…"

"We _know_." Caspian glared at him. "You hadn't any right to put us all in danger like this."

"It's not his fault," Susan defended him.

"Really, it isn't," Peter put-in mildly. "She's right, Caspian, you know there's nothing he could have done."

"He did his best," Susan added, recalling how he'd grabbed that rock and rushed over.

"Where's Lucy?" Edmund said suddenly, glad for a change of subject.

"Still up in her tree, over there, I'd expect." Peter glanced over at the tree and was horrified for a moment to see she wasn't there.

"What's everybody looking at?" Lucy came up behind them as they were all staring at the big knobby tree in horror.

Peter put his hand to his heart and breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, there you are; I thought I told you to wait in the tree."

"I did," Lucy pointed out. "The wolves are gone now."

"I wonder what happened to the thingummy, though-the dragon, I mean," said Edmund thoughtfully.

"I think he was a nice dragon," Lucy decided.

"I do not think there _are_ nice dragons, Lucy," Caspian told her; "but perhaps he was less awful than most."

After all that excitement, you can imagine that by the time it got quite dark again, they were all eager to get some sleep. But, and they all agreed to this, they couldn't all doze off at once; they knew they must take turns keeping watch, each one of them, while the others slept. Except, that is, for Lucy, who Peter and Susan both thought would need sleep more badly than the rest of them since she was only a little girl after all. At first she was a bit vexed at being excused from 'duty' for no apparent reason aside from the fact that she was smaller than they were, but she was so worn-out that she barely willed herself to make much fuss about the matter. At any rate, Edmund was to take the first shift standing watch; then Caspian; then Peter; then lastly, when she'd gotten the best of forty-winks she could get under the circumstances, Susan.

The boys all worried about Susan's turn. This was not only because she was a lady and more delicate than they were, it was also due to her lack of seriousness about the matter. Now that the wolves were gone, she seemed to think they were as much a harmless nightmare as she'd believed the dragon to be. So the boys-young men, whichever-all made certain her shift was the shortest as well as the last.

It was during the Telmarine king's shift that Peter had another dream. Presently, he saw the same great lady he'd seen so many times before, standing in the shallow part of what appeared to be either a large pond or a small lake. She didn't appear to be bathing (she was fully dressed in a long single garment of pale blue) or swimming (the water wasn't deep enough for that where she stood), simply standing still, looking into the distance.

She turned and looked at him, pulling her long yellow hair over one of her shoulders where it fell almost to the end of her waist.

"Excuse me," Peter knew his voice was low and wished-as people often do in dreams-that he could speak a bit more clearly so that she would be able to hear him better. He wanted to ask her what she had meant when she'd said, 'don't forget me when you get there'. He didn't suppose she would actually answer him, but he felt he really ought to try in any case.

She began to glow bright as anything and suddenly, though she had been plenty tall and slim before, she seemed much more so then, almost like a long pillar of white light. The pillar shot upwards and soon it looked like an enormous diamond zipping up and up and up into a sky of pure black velvet. And she was gone.

Without realizing it, Peter had started to go into the water himself; he was up to his knees as he stood gaping at the spot where the lady had been standing. Turning around, he saw something that should have struck him as peculiar but for some reason or other felt natural enough at the time. There was a little boy sitting on the water's edge, watching him.

The boy was fair-headed and about a year younger than little Lucy. And he looked it, too. The lad was quite the puniest person Peter had seen in a long while. He was not terribly impressive, nor was his face entirely nice to look at in spite of its many strong points, but what was very interesting about him were his clothes. The high king had never seen such clothes before; dark and dismal, the same colour as the dragon's skin had been.

Presumably it was a sort of tunic, though it might just as well have been a lengthier doublet-the high king wasn't sure. Round the middle, there was a queer copper belt with a ring of gold for a buckle. Hanging from the buckle was a gold hammer with a diamond hanging above it like a star. What a strange device!

"I don't like being stared at," said the boy, very sulkily. "But I suppose I ought to have gotten used it to by now."

"Boy," said Peter, his voice clearer now as he climbed out of the water, back onto the shoreline, "did you see that woman-lady, I mean?"

"What did she look like?" asked the boy.

"Well," he began.

"Was she very beautiful, dressed in blue?"

"Yes," said Peter. "Yes, she was."

"It's not a woman," the boy said, his tone bordering on know-it-all though it was obvious he was not trying to give the king any cheek; "it's a star. Still locked up, you know."

"I didn't know." Peter wondered why he felt a little guilty admitting this.

"Well, you ought to have, really." Here the boy gave him a rather sharp facial expression. "Then, since you're a king and all…well, you've had other things to worry about. Still, I used to think it would be nice to be a republican, no offence."

"A republican?"

"Means I wouldn't respect monarchy, you don't know anything at all, do you?"

"Is that also followed by no offense?" Peter chuckled.

The boy clicked his tongue and pouted at the high king. "And still no word of thanks for saving all of your sorry skins back there, I presume? No, of course not."

"Back where?" Peter's brow crinkled.

"What short memories you rulers can have!" He rolled his eyes. "Well, I'd best remind you, then. Back when those wolves closed in. I may not be good for much, but I'll be dashed if I can't scare away a pack of big walloping _dogs_ once in a while!"

"You…" Peter's voice faltered from surprise "…you were the dragon?"

"Yes."

"Oh, but you look different now…more like…well, like you could be one of us."

"I jolly well nearly am, you just don't know it-sort of."

"You might explain some things," Peter tried, glancing down at the golden device on the boy's belt.

"My name's Eustace," he volunteered. "Eustace Clarence."

"Peter, high king of Narnia."

"Yes, I know that."

"Oh."

"You'll be waking up in a moment anyway," Eustace told him.

And Peter found he was lying down on the ground, his arm being lightly shaken by Caspian. It was his turn to keep watch; and the dream was completely over anyway.


	10. Tower of Starlight

At dawn, Caspian, Peter, Edmund, Susan, and Lucy all sat up, rubbed their sleepy eyes, and reassumed walking. Both Susan and Edmund felt very much that they never wanted to see another tree again.

What was worse, they were all starving by this point, having not had anything to eat aside from a little dried jerky from Peter and Caspian's pockets. But although there were trees a-plenty, there were no fruits on them, and there were no berries or nuts on the bushes they came across. Edmund suggested digging for roots; and Lucy asked if that meant the roots of trees.

Regardless, they didn't end up digging either for roots or for truffles (Edmund's next suggestion), but, rather, they decided to keep pressing on. Peter tried his best to assure everyone that he was fairly positive they would find their way out of the forest today; but Susan noticed his voice was hesitant and unnatural, uncertain.

All this makes one wonder if my horrible witch of an adopted mother really did give me such bad food after all, thought Edmund, I can't say I wouldn't eat a hunk of dry bread right about now if it were offered to me-even with water frozen to its cup-but, then, this is still better than living with her anyway. I would _not_ like to be a prisoner again, now that I've been free. Better starvation rations than _that_!

But his growling stomach appeared to disagree with his mind every few minutes, which was annoying.

"Peter," said Susan at last, looking a little tight-faced, "I've been meaning to ask-I've just realized something-didn't you think to bring a compass?"

"Of course I did," huffed Peter. "It's on my saddle."

"Lot of good it's doing there," she remarked.

"It doesn't matter," Caspian put his oar in. "The best compass in the world can only do so well without a half-way decent map."

"I do wish one of you had brought your hunting horn at least, then." She sniffed self-righteously. "Would have come in handy."

"I seem to remember," said Peter slowly, zeroing in on her, his tone very no-nonsense as he folded his arms across his chest, "giving you a hunting horn, Susan, and _you_ didn't bring it with you into the thicket either. So you can hush up about that already."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was just trying to be realistic."

"No," said Peter, "you were trying to be _smart_ -as usual."

"Oh, stop it, please," said Lucy; "this isn't going to help."

"Is it just me," Caspian's voice wavered into a surprised tone, "or are there less trees up ahead-veering to the left a bit?"

"Could be a clearing," agreed Peter, looking relieved.

"Oh, what's the use of that?" Susan exclaimed, frustrated. "Really, think about it for a minute, just because it's a clearing doesn't mean it's the way out."

"There may be a cottage in the clearing," Edmund explained shortly, not because he was cross, but because he could tell Peter was getting more annoyed with Susan by the second and he figured he should try to defuse the situation the best he could. "And you never know if someone there might tell us the way back." Actually, he didn't think there would be a cottage there at all, whatever he might have said, and Susan seemed to know this (what sane, sensible person would want to live in the middle of no where?), pouting sullenly the whole short walk over.

"What happened?" murmured Caspian suddenly. He found himself speaking in hush tones, and it felt right, but he didn't know why.

"How do you mean?" blurted Susan, before she realized how odd things were becoming.

"Was it not just first thing in the morning a few seconds ago?" Caspian blinked in confusion. "Now it looks almost as if it could be early to mid evening."

And indeed, it did. The sky wasn't dark, not like nighttime, but it was purplish and hazy with a dim pinkish light mixed in. The beds of heather on the sides of the clearing gleamed silver; the colours on the trunks of the surrounding trees shone in dark-and-light shadowy patches.

"It looks like twilight," Lucy stated what was obvious to all five of them now.

"What's that?" Susan pointed at a great looming thing that was certainly not a tree but was much too narrow (and far too tall, at any rate) to be a house or a palace.

Clearly it was some kind of tower, yet as to what it appeared to be made of they couldn't all agree. It was some sort of clear metal or rock that was see-through enough so that one could spy a long, winding, narrow-step staircase going up its inside in a spiral (there was no door leading to it). At the very top, where you couldn't see through it at all because of how high it was, there appeared to be a single room lit with still candlelight that twinkled faintly downwards. There was a window, but none of them could really see it.

"It looks like glass," said Caspian.

Edmund shook his head. "If it was glass, something in this forest would have broken it by now. It's not a normal sort of material, I don't think it's from the natural world at all."

"You would know better than I in that, I suppose." The king of Telmar sounded rather condescending when he said these words. Perhaps he did not really and truly mean to, but, regardless, he did.

Lucy squeezed Edmund's hand and whispered, "Don't let him get to you, Ed." Then, "It is a great marvel though, isn't it? This tower? I've never seen anything like it."

"Nor has anyone else present," muttered Edmund, thinking: that's what makes me the most uneasy about it.

"Peter?" Susan looked to the high king and saw that his face was very strange. His expression was unreadable and his facial muscles kept on flinching like he was fighting off a tension headache.

"Susan," he whispered, not entirely in his senses but not all out of it, either, "you're probably the last person who I should ask about this, but tell me, am I dreaming?"

"You're only a sort of thing in _my_ dream," she said.

He rolled his eyes. "Lucy, pinch me, won't you?"

Lucy did so; lightly, but enough to assure him he was quite awake.

"High King Peter, what is it?" asked Caspian worriedly, wondering at the ever-widening eyes of Narnia's ruler.

"Can you hear that?"

"Hear what?" They all asked.

"I can hear a girl crying again." He shut his eyes tightly, moaned, and it passed; the sound faded into nothing.

"Do you hear her now?" Susan asked impatiently.

"He's not crazy," Lucy defended him. "He must have heard _something_."

"Shh," whispered Peter, waving his hand absently signaling for them to be quiet; he could hear her again, only now she was talking to him instead of crying.

_Can you hear me?_

" _Yes, I can hear you."_

_I'm in the tower, in the room at the very top. Please help me._

" _How can we get at you?"_

_Hold on a second…_

As soon as Peter heard her tell him to wait, something long and bright streamed down the side of the tower. It was a long rope made from spun gold so perfectly-and tightly-woven that it looked not unlike a long golden braid.

Crouching down near the base of the tower, Caspian murmured, "Rapunzel."

"What?" Peter's concentration broke, his eyes straying from the golden rope which everyone-except for Caspian-were now gaping at, and squinted at his friend in bafflement.

"There's rapunzel lettuce growing all round the tower in a circle," he gestured at a plant he'd apparently been examining.

Edmund's stomach growled again and he took a step forward. "I wonder if it's safe to eat or not."

"We'll get that sorted after we rescue the lady," Peter decided, shifting his gaze back to the rope.

"Is it quite safe?" wondered Susan aloud. "Perhaps you shouldn't-"

"I have to," he said determinedly. "I feel it in my bones."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Susan rolled her eyes, thinking him very sappy and needlessly sentimental at the moment. They all ought to think up a better plan than just _climbing_ up…really!

But there was no better plan to be had, whatever Susan might think about the matter, and Peter was dead-set on climbing up to the top of the tower. Edmund made the suggestion, however, that Peter should not go by himself. Caspian, he said, ought to go up in front of him, he himself-Edmund-just behind, leaving the high king of Narnia in the middle.

"That way," he explained, "if it's some trick and there isn't really a lady up there but…rather…something…else…three of us can be a better match for it. You've got to be careful in places that feel as stiff with enchantment as this does."

Despite the fact that Peter was convinced beyond shadow of doubt that, enchantment or no enchantment a-foot, he still knew exactly what to expect up at the top, he agreed to Edmund's plan, which temporarily satisfied even Susan, though she did grumble that if something got all three of them, that left only her to look after little Lucy until she woke up-and who knew when that was going to happen? It hadn't yet, she pointed out.

A great deal of eye-rolling at Susan's silliness turned into planning of how they were going to climb up the golden rope without getting feet in each other's mouths or noses.

All things considered, the boys-young men, if you'd rather-did pretty well, but Caspian's foot did wind up on Peter's head once or twice, slowing down traffic; and Edmund cursed under his breath, for his hands and stomach were sore, and stopping so long just dangling wasn't helping.

Needless to explain, Caspian reached the top first, lifting himself in through the window. He stood, blinking in the candlelight for a moment, letting his eyes adjust before they settled on a tall, sitting figure in the middle of the room; the most stunningly beautiful girl he had ever seen-or even _imagined_ -in all his life.

Her skin was so perfect, her complexion so spotless, that it gleamed like a star; her long fairy-tale hair fell all round her arms and upper-waist like a silken curtain.

Before Caspian could will himself to speak to her, Peter and Edmund had climbed into the window behind him, and were also standing in the room.

The beautiful girl's eyes locked on Edmund first, blinking. "Edmund of Charn, right?"

Edmund looked very uncomfortable as he nodded and said, "Yes." He felt uneasy at how quickly she knew him; that didn't seem right. Caspian knew him because he'd stolen his horse once, but Edmund was certain he had never met this splendid lady before-she did not have the sort of face that was easily forgotten.

"Hullo," said Peter, taking a step forward.

As soon as she saw Peter clearly, her face took on a new look of amazement and wonder. "You!"

"Um, me," stammered Peter, wondering what she was getting at.

"I've had dreams about you," she told him. "But you were different, younger, I think."

"I've dreamed about you, too," he confessed; "only you looked just the same as you do here and now."

She shrugged her shoulders. "So, who are you?"

"High King Peter of Narnia."

"Pleased to meet you."

"Well," said Peter, expectantly.

"Well what?"

"I've told you who I am, what about you? What's your name?"

"I'm afraid, King Peter, that I no longer remember it, it's been such a long time since I was referred to by a proper name that I can't recall. You and your friends will have to name me yourselves if you so wish it. Otherwise, you can call me Ramandu's daughter, because I remember my father's name well enough-if I can't recall my own."

"How is it that you remember his name so well but not yours?" Edmund asked suspiciously. "That doesn't make much sense."

"Doesn't it?" she said softly. "My father was a well-known star once, very well known, but now he is retired. One day he will return to the sky and will be well known again. It's easier to remember his name, you see."

Ramandu's daughter stood up and smiled uneasily at them. "Can we get on? The sooner I get out of this tower, the better I'll feel."

"You want to come with us?" Edmund didn't like that idea much.

"Well, you can't mean to leave me here!"

"I'm Caspian," Caspian blurted out, reaching over to shake Ramandu's daughter's hand; he realized he hadn't introduced himself yet. "Erm…king of…some place…" It was a wonder he had not forgotten his own name as well as that of his country.

"That's nice," said Ramandu's daughter, not sounding terribly interested, paying more attention to Peter at the moment. "You have to let me come with you."

"Fine with me," sighed Caspian, entranced, gazing at her with his head slightly tilted.

Edmund wanted to smack him.

"Why didn't you just climb down?" Peter wanted to know. "By the golden rope, I mean."

"Ah, I was wondering when you were going to ask about that." She motioned over at a polished mahogany spinning-wheel in the far corner of the room. The remarkable thing about it was that it appeared to have straw on one side of the wheel and spun gold on the other. "I made it myself."

"You can spin straw into gold?" The high king sounded impressed.

She nodded.

"You're clever," gushed Caspian.

"Oh, do shut up, Caspian," muttered Edmund.

"So why didn't you climb out?" he pressed.

"Because," -she looked down at her ankle- "as you can see, I've a chain round my foot."

"You poor thing," said Caspian, looking angry. "Who did this to you?"

"It's a long story," she said, "I haven't the time to tell it now, do hurry up and undo it so I can leave, won't you?" She looked hopefully over at Peter.

"How?"

"I have the key." She placed a little key that looked like a teeny glittering diamond into the palm of his hand.

His brow crinkled. "If you have the key, why didn't you let yourself go?"

"Because it's enchanted," she said, a bit impatiently. "It's locked on by genetics; I cannot let myself out. Nor, I think, could my father-or any other blood relatives or closely related stars if they came to me."

"Well that makes sense," Caspian said firmly. "Best set her free."

Peter, while not besotted like the king of Telmar evidently was, thought he could trust her-he felt, perhaps because of all those dreams, as if he knew her-and knew her well at that. Edmund was not so sure.

"Look here," said Edmund, staring at her very hard. "I'm no coward; but when I look at your face, I feel afraid. Because when I look at you I believe every word you say whether I really want to or not-that's just the sort of thing that might happen with a witch, too. How are we to know you're a friend?"

"You can't know," she whispered meekly; "you can only believe-or not."

For a moment, Peter had a very queer feeling, as if he'd heard something like that before; and he realized why, yes, he had. From his very own mouth, no less. He'd said something similar to Susan when they'd first met. And, well, wasn't it odd that this lady had the same trick of speech?

"I think we'd best let her go," said Caspian.

"I know _you_ do!" huffed Edmund.

"I'll undo the chain," Peter finally offered. "If you'll let me."

"Well hurry up, then." Ramandu's daughter smiled with relief.

So, Peter took the key and placed it into the key-hole in the chain. But it was the oddest thing! He couldn't make it turn. It stayed straight no matter how much pressure he put on it.

"It doesn't budge," Peter told her.

"That's impossible!" she exclaimed, clearly dismayed.

While Edmund was still a bit wary of Ramandu's daughter, not fully convinced she was on the right side, he thought this whole business about the chain was getting rather old. Clearly Peter and Caspian were dead-set on releasing the girl and so it didn't matter what Edmund felt regarding this at any rate, but Peter was proving quite useless at getting the chain off. Edmund had had some experience with chains and being chained up in his life, and of course he knew a bit about enchantments as well, so he figured it would be easier for him to figure out what was amiss with the key than for a clueless high king.

"Here," Edmund gave in, "let me try."

"Be my guest." Peter's fingers were red now from his fruitless attempts.

Edmund had scarcely to touch the key before it turned as easy as butter. He looked at Peter, puzzled. This was what had been giving the king such a hard time? This which had taken him half a second to undo? Really?

"Thank you," breathed Ramandu's daughter, so thankful she hardly knew what to do with herself for a moment.

"Let's go," said Peter at last. "Susan and Lucy will be wondering if we're all right."

"Wait," said Ramandu's daughter, walking over to a small cupboard. "We might need a bow and arrows if we're going to travel in the forest; I noticed none of you men seem to have one about you. There's an old bow here somewhere. The string will be a bit perished, but I'll just spin a new string from straw-it'll be gold, of course, but that's plenty strong enough. It'll only take a minute."

When she had gotten that all sorted, a new string of gold and all, and had strapped the quiver of arrows to Caspian for him to carry down the tower, they all climbed out the window.

Upon reaching solid ground, they saw Susan and Lucy running over to them. Lucy liked Ramandu's daughter at once and in a single glance they became good friends; Susan was more like Edmund, uncertain yet polite.

It was all arranged that before there would be any exchange of stories or explanations, something like a meal ought to be fixed. They gathered up arm-fulls of the rapunzel (which Ramandu's daughter assured them was safe to eat) and Susan-somewhat reluctantly-shot a couple of non-talking rabbits with the bow and arrows loaned to her. They built a campfire and the girls sat a-ways off while the boys skinned the meat. Finally, when all was finished, they were all together round the fire and tucking it in good. Even Lucy, who had never eaten rabbit before, had seconds.

It was then, keeping his eye on Ramandu's daughter, looking for signs of her maybe being a witch, that Edmund noticed something.

Ramandu's daughter and Peter were sitting side by side and although neither of them seemed to notice, they ate the exact same way. Both had the same habit of folding the rapunzel over a little strip of meat before taking a bite and wiping their mouths with the back of their left hands when they were finished. They also sat the same way and, shockingly, their profiles, as far as chins at least went, looked freakishly alike.

"Susan, look!" Edmund nudged her shoulder and pointed discreetly.

Susan noticed the similarities and her eyes widened with surprise.

"I found some blue berries on a bush over there," Caspian said, offering them to Ramandu's daughter.

"Hey, what about the rest of us?" demanded Edmund, forgetting about Peter for a second, feeling a little cheated.

"You should see how Peter eats blue berries," laughed Lucy conversationally.

"Oh, it's disgusting!" Caspian cut in. "He puts them into his sandwiches in a paste, no matter what kind of sandwich it is! I mean it's one thing with peanut butter, but he does it with ham, too!"

Ramandu's daughter's face flushed. "No way!"

Peter shrugged indifferently. "I think it tastes good…I like it."

"Peter," said Ramandu's daughter awkwardly, "I do the same thing."

"Seriously? Most people find it gross."

"I know, I don't get it." She smiled at him.

"This is getting weird," Lucy whispered to Edmund.

"Lu, we passed _weird_ a long, long while back," he replied.


	11. Mainly about Edmund

"What are they always whispering about?" Caspian wanted to know, watching Ramandu's daughter and Peter talking quietly, strolling at a steady pace ahead of the rest of the group as they all continued wandering the forest grounds.

"How should I know?" groused Susan, rather ill-temperedly. She was feeling quite ignored-snubbed, even-and was simply dying to get out of the dratted forest already.

In all fairness, though they seemed to have a great deal to discuss between the two of them, the star's daughter and the high king were not actually _trying_ to leave anybody else out. And if Susan was at any point a little paranoid, thinking they might be talking about _her_ , in all fairness on her side, too, they really were a little bit. More specifically, they were talking about the green and yellow rings that had brought her into Narnia through the mirror in Peter's bed chamber.

Ever more at ease with the young lady they had rescued, Peter eventually told her about the rings; and she said something very interesting indeed.

"My father, Ramandu, once told me that four decades before he could rise to the heavens and be no longer 'a star at rest', there would be a girl with a pair of rings who would bring about the end of the evil force-and place-known as Charn. I've hoped it would not be Edmund's end as well, and I don't believe it will be, either. To be honest, I think the poor boy was more misled than anything else."

"I think the same," said Peter. "But tell me, how did you know who he was? How did you know so much about him? You really ought to tell me, since you haven't even explained to any of us yet how you got in that tower to begin with."

"I was hoping to wait until we were out of the forest," she explained. Also, she had been too tired and had not felt like telling her whole life's story once they'd all had a meal and were feeling sleepy; so she'd kept putting it off all the more so. "But if you must know, I know of him from my father and also from a brief meeting; he did not see me-Edmund, I mean-but I saw him."

"How do you mean?"

She smiled knowingly with a trace of secrecy. "The night he crossed the borders of Charn into Narnia, I had a hand in helping him escape the wolves. He was wounded, and this was just before I was taken prisoner and chained up in that tower. In fact, he was part of the reason, though there was no way he could have known that, and it wasn't really his fault. I made my own choice. But I'll explain that later."

"Great Scott!" cried Peter, speaking a bit more loudly than he meant to. For he had just realized something important. "I started having those dreams about you after Lucy found Edmund…"

"And that is exactly when I needed help."

He looked very hard at her. "When did you start dreaming about me?"

"I had dreams about you when I was very little, but they were infrequent. When I was trapped in that tower, I dreamed of you almost every time I fell asleep."

"This whole thing is quite impossible," murmured Peter to himself. "I feel like I'm dreaming still." Then he cursed himself inwardly because he knew he sounded almost exactly like Susan.

Suddenly Susan, behind them and now a little ways behind Caspian and Lucy, too, though in front still of Edmund, let out a sharp cry of pain. And at once they all turned to face her.

"What's wrong?" asked Lucy.

"I-I don't know," replied Susan-a little shakily. "I felt something stab at me, like a sharp piece of ice." What she didn't mention was that she felt it near her heart, where Edmund's medallion was hanging; for she still knew she daren't let them know she had it.

For the next few moments they were all focused on Susan, asking if she was quite all right now and could she be more specific? She said she was fine, really, and for them not to worry. She had just imagined it, probably, she said. These sort of faux-pains must happen all the time in vivid dreams, so that was perfectly normal. They must all keep pressing on so as to get out of the forest as quickly as possible; no need to worry about her passing fancy of pain.

Peter wasn't so sure this was true, but he let it go for the time being as he was tired, as eager to get out of the forest as she was, and also saw that her half-hidden grimace of pain was softening. They would simply have to be careful, and if anything of the sort happened again, then, perhaps it would be worth worrying about.

"I say," said Lucy, looking this way and that, "where's Edmund?"

"Right behind me, of course-" began Susan. Then she turned round and saw why Lucy was so anxious; Edmund wasn't there after all.

"Edmund of Charn?" Caspian called. Even he, little as he liked and trusted Edmund, couldn't keep the mounting fear out of his voice.

"Ed?" said Peter, also sounding afraid.

He was right behind me, thought Susan, feeling sick to her stomach.

At that very moment, Edmund was laid-out on his back blinking up at a pale, gray wintry sky. Small, hard snowflakes-the kind that sting when they are blown into your eyes-fell on his face.

Although no one had seen it, he had taken a step back, hearing something-perhaps a cracking twig. Then he had fallen, landed flat, and everything was quite different. The air was colder; it might very well not have been the same wood he had just been standing in with the others-indeed, it wasn't.

Lifting his head up and looking around, he swallowed and clenched his jaw, his eyes widening. He saw frost on the trees. He knew exactly where he was. Charn. He'd fallen back into Charn. It was just as he had feared; when he'd least expected it, he'd been pulled back.

What was odd about it was that he felt a little lighter than he had the last time he'd been in Charn, as if every weight, every painful experience, was piled back on him-save for one. It was like, impossible as it seemed, an invisible thread as thin as an eyelash still connected him to the other world-to Narnia. More specifically, to Susan.

It was the medallion that caused this. While Peter and Ramandu's daughter's connection seemed to come, unexplainably, from within, Edmund and Susan's came directly from the one link they shared-the trouble over the emblem of Queen Jadis. Now that he was in Charn and she was still in possession of it, there was an exchange felt, like a passing shiver. Not a small one, rather, a sharp, shooting one, cold like ice. This, you see, was what Susan had felt when she cried out. She had not noticed Edmund's absence by that point, yet he had already been gone, already found-sucked in-by Charn. And, still, she had felt the passing sting of pain.

So at any rate, Edmund couldn't sit in the snow for ever. There were no signs of the witch or her wolves about, and while he had no doubt they would find him eventually, with great ease in their own moving evil country, he was not stupid enough to sit and wait for them to appear and haul him off.

His hands were numb; he blew on them as he stood up and glanced, once more, anxiously at the thick, wide, very tall, layers of frost clinging to the trees. There was almost more frost than tree; certainly more ice than there was wood. That was for sure.

Goodness, with all the warm, cheerful fires lit in the Cair Paravel grates on the cold days in Narnia, in spite of even his most vivid memories, Edmund was now positive that he had-to some degree-believe it or not-really and truly forgotten exactly what the horrid cold of Charn felt like. He remembered shuddering inwardly as he explained it to Susan, but now it occurred to him that he had not been, perhaps, quite graphic enough after all. This was worse than he recalled. And more unsettling still was the piercing sureness that Mother Jadis's castle was colder than the wood he was presently wandering in. He wondered how he'd been able to bear it his whole childhood.

Well, he thought, that's why I ran away, wasn't it? Part of it anyway.

Loneliness began to over-take him. It stabbed at him more sharply than any frozen icicle could have; it hurt his heart in a fleshly, torn, tender manner, so that it was more of a bruising than a solid chilling. Before leaving Charn, if he had had any real friends, they must not have been terribly important or meant very much to him, for he couldn't remember any by name. Likely, there simply had been none. One or two of the wolves might have been slightly less nasty on a day when meat was more plentiful and Maugrim wasn't looking, but they definitely were not friends. Not like the friends he had in Narnia now. Caspian might not have liked him, and he jolly well knew he didn't care much for Caspian, but even meeting up with him just then would have been nice. Nicer still would have been to see Peter or Susan (though he found he didn't miss her quite so much, feeling that faint connection). Best of all, most of all, Lucy. He found that the intensity he missed her with caused more than half of the bruising in his heart.

Edmund realized then and there that it was unlikely for him to escape Charn all over again, and while he struggled to be at least a little optimistic, his resolve was fading fast. He might never see Lucy again; little Lucy who had saved him that first day and adopted him as her playfellow even when he insulted her precious Lion-her Aslan. A lump rose in Edmund's throat and he wanted to cry. It surprised him that the tears were hot and did not freeze and stick to his face later when he thought it all over; at the time, he was too lonely to realize the oddness of it.

When he thought that he would never again see the places in Narnia that had in a relatively short time become so familiar, his heart continued its sinking. So sad he became, that he started to feel as though it wouldn't be so bad for the White Witch to capture him after all. If she'd just take him away so that he would not have to keep roaming-keep thinking-and stop all of his whirling thoughts and heated tears, things might be a little better. What hope was there of finding the border? He felt there was none, yet even in his despair, he wondered how he could possibly feel so dejected. Where had his valor and sense of burning justice and his determination to be free gone? How was it possible that after he'd gotten his freedom-and lost it-he felt less able to re-gain it? What sense did that make? None at all.

He put his hand to his chest as if to feel for the medallion before he remembered he didn't have it. And of course he felt stupid for forgetting _that_ (even for a second)-after all the trouble over that rot. Little did he know that as his despair deepened, back in the western Narnian forest where the others where both looking for him and still trying to find a way out at the same time, Susan had started crying. Peter asked what the matter was, but she couldn't explain herself. She just told him she felt sad all of a sudden, as if they'd never get out. For once she didn't blame everything on their circumstances being a thing in her dream although she still stubbornly refused, even now, to believe it was real; and that alarmed everybody all the more so. Lucy tried to cheer her up, and when she put her hand on Susan's lower arm, she never knew that Edmund-in Charn-turned round, sensing a vague, numb touch on his own arm.

But before Edmund had time to ponder over this, something struck the lower part of his calves. It was a whip, held by a fat, familiar dwarf-one of the White Witch's dwarfs wearing a crimson hat and a fine silver-thread winter-coat lined with polar bear's fur.

The blow knocked Edmund to the ground (in Narnia, Susan stumbled slightly and murmured that a branch must have shot out and hit her legs). Whatever parts of him he had managed to brush snow off of were covered in ice and sleet all over again; he moaned and looked up at the dwarf. But only for a moment, before he saw the pale figure of Mother Jadis standing there. His teeth chattered; he'd forgotten how tall she was. All seven feet of her stood over him, making the dwarf look like a mushroom in comparison.

"Been visiting other countries, have we, Edmund?" she stated icily.

He blinked and started to inch away from her before one of her powerful hands reached down, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into her sleigh.

At first, things were not so horrible. Queen Jadis realized, even if he did not, that it wasn't only fear that was paralyzing him, and apparently at the moment he was of no use to her dead, so she gave him something hot to drink and ordered the dwarf to wrap him in furs and to keep the snow off of him for a little while. She even kissed his forehead. That only made him feel worse, like he wanted to vomit, but it was still rather surprising considering how angry she was with him running off.

As soon as they reached the castle and it became clear that he had readjusted to the cold in the sense that he wasn't about to roll over and literately die from it (however much he might wish to), the tables turned. All the furs were taken from him and his jeweled cup was snatched out of his still-trembling hands and thrown at one of the blue ice-walls where it turned into naught but a puff of snow before vanishing.

It wasn't until then, wincing grimly at the sight of the White Witch's black-ice throne, that Edmund began to wish he hadn't drank what she'd given him after all. For while any fool knew that she wasn't trying to kill him and he was more or less safe from out-right poisoning, he had mistakenly forgotten to worry about being drugged. Which, he assumed now that he had been, for he couldn't keep his eyes open and the sleep that was rushing through his veins forcing him to collapse onto the floor (Susan felt a little woozy and the whole party had to stop and rest for a few minutes while she got her bearings) didn't feel natural.

When he awoke hours later with a terrible headache, he was in a dungeon he knew quite well, as Jadis used to lock him in there whenever he had been naughty as a little child or else whenever she felt like punishing him because he was displeasing to her in one way or another. One of his ankles hurt because it was chained to the wall, but other than that-and his swimmy head-nothing else seemed too badly injured.

He found he was mortal hungry in spite of his sour stomach and aching joints, and wondered if 'Mother Jadis' and her servants had thought to leave him anything to eat. There was a rusty tray on his left side; all that was on it was ice in a dented tin cup (for water, probably) and a hunk of dried bread. He tried the bread, but it is no use trying to wash down inedible food without _real_ water, so he gave up.

A meek, polite little voice at his other side, whispered, "If you're not going to eat that…"

"Oh, of course," said Edmund, without much thought, handing the bread over to his neighbor. Little as he suspected it, the manners he had been learning at Cair Paravel had really had rather a lovely effect on his general demeanor. There had been a time when he would have scoffed and perhaps stomped the bread to crumbs just for a laugh, thinking himself a much more important prisoner than his fellow. Any such notions seemed silly now. After all, one couldn't spend considerable amounts of time with people such as Peter, Susan, and Lucy and not become a bit more decorous; iron does sharpen iron, you know.

The light was a dim greenish-blue and it took a lot of squinting to examine anything (or anybody) else in the dungeon, but Edmund managed and had to keep himself from shouting out in horror-and maybe even twisted, selfish pleasure at having someone that wasn't a fiend, or else a stranger, to talk to. It was Tumnus; a broken lantern at his side (Edmund wondered that it hadn't been taken from him, broken or not).

"Master Tumnus?"

The faun squinted back. "Edmund?"

"Story same as mine?" he whispered. "Captured?"

Tumnus nodded. "Yes, I was looking for you all when you didn't return during the hunt and I stumbled into Charn."

"I'm sorry," said Edmund.

"For what? You didn't lock me in here."

"It's still my fault. Charn wouldn't be vengeful on Narnia if not for my coming." He was quite mistaken in this, but that was only because he didn't know where he had come from before Jadis had 'taken him in' as an infant.

Tumnus shook his head sadly. "You mustn't blame yourself for that."

"Caspian would."

"Caspian's not here," said the Faun, not too harshly. "Besides, if you've gotten out once, we can both get out again."

Folding his arms across his chest, Edmund snorted, "Don't you remember the condition I was in when Lucy found me?"

"Alive." Tumnus raised an eyebrow.

"Dying," Edmund corrected darkly. "We won't make it, we can't."

Just then, the heavy ice-metal door flew open and Jadis strolled in, holding a long gold-and-glass wand in one hand.

"You were in Narnia, weren't you?" she demanded of Edmund, not even half-glancing at Tumnus.

Edmund didn't answer. His time in the Narnian court was too precious to spoil by talking about with _her_.

"Answer me," she commanded.

"I…"

"He's dazed, your Majesty," Tumnus piped up. "He can't be expected to think clearly in his state…he-" The faun stopped talking abruptly when a large guard, some sort of grey troll, took a spear and hit him in the face with the handle.

Bending down, Jadis, without warning, reached into the front of Edmund's tunic, hunting for something with her long, cold fingers. "Where's the medallion?"

"I don't know…" he stammered, thinking of Susan and immediately frightened that the witch might try to harm her if he ratted her out. "It was taken from me."

She grabbed the front of his tunic again and lifted him in the air, holding him right up to her face. "Who took it?"

Peter, he thought, but he knew he daren't sell him out, either. He was a little tempted to say it was Caspian, let the witch go after _him_ and leave the Narnians alone, but he wasn't cold-blooded enough for that.

"I don't know…I…erm...was asleep…" Edmund's eyes narrowed accusingly. "Your wolves nearly killed me, I was half-dead at the time."

"You're lying." Her own eyes glinted furiously. (She didn't mean the wolves, by the way, she believed him well enough about that).

"I can't remember," he tried.

"You're of no further use to me." Queen Jadis flung him down so that he landed roughly on his bottom; it was miracle the seven foot downward tumble had not broken his tail-bone.

What she said was not strictly true, he was still of use to her, more than he-or even her servants, namely the wolves-realized, but she needed the medallion back, too.


	12. The Little Bargain

"Peter?" Susan said, tapping on the high king's shoulder. Ramandu's daughter, who seemed to be the only one he felt like talking to lately, was currently trying to explain to a still rather besotted Caspian how to cook dried meat a certain way so that it was easier to chew, mixing some surprisingly easily found forest-herbs in with it, but he wasn't getting a word of what she was saying, adding needless frustration to the already anxious, blood-shot-eyed group, so Susan figured the poor star girl would be busy for a while and she could ask Peter something that had been weighing on her mind.

He turned and gave her a smile that was understandably forced considering their current circumstances and Edmund's unsolved disappearance, but was kindly meant all the same. He was actually feeling a little sorry that they hadn't been on the best of terms as of late, bickering and what-not. Truth was, irritation put aside, he still really liked her; and of course when someone goes missing those who have remained behind suddenly become much more precious to a man of an over-protective nature (Peter fell easily-and unarguably-into this class of gentlemen).

"Do you think Edmund could be in Charn?" she whispered shakily. "I mean, right now, at this very moment?" For somebody who thought this whole misadventure was only a dream she was having back in her own world, she sounded pretty concerned.

"If it's found him." Peter swallowed hard and avoided her eyes for a couple of seconds, not wanting her to see he, high king though he was, wasn't immune to the terror such a thought created in a person's mind and heart.

"If it did," said Susan, "would there be any way of getting him out again?"

Peter sighed. "Susan, if it were like any other country, then yes, in theory there would be. But Charn, well, it's so seeped in evil…and how would anyone know where to find it?"

"Edmund told me a little bit about it once." Susan flinched at the memory, pricked by guilt, the cool medal of the medallion suddenly feeling much heavier against her chest. "He said the witch-the White Witch, I mean-must have stolen him away as a baby. But logically…especially now that he's run away from her…what does she want with him?"

"I don't know," said Peter. "I've never met her."

"Peter, can I ask you something else?" Her face flushed; she was afraid that this question was going to make him suspicious, but she had to ask it. She had to know.

"Sure."

"That medallion, the one that went missing," said Susan, willing herself not to glance down at the front of her own dress, "what was so important about it?" She wasn't sure she believed in magic, she'd scoffed at the notion of it back home, so she wouldn't word her question the clear way. But supposing, as impossible as it was, this wasn't all a dream? What if those rings Mr. Ketterley had sold her really had drawn her through that mirror?

The reason she thought of that now and began to doubt herself, was because of Edmund. He'd been a witch's slave, living in Charn, forced to see and deal with forces that people shouldn't get involved in-especially if they don't know what they're really doing. Susan suspected Edmund wasn't thoroughly ignorant but was still innocent of any serious dabbling, he was too clever (and good, deep down) for that. Mr. Ketterley was most likely a fool; he hadn't seemed to know what the rings really were when he'd sold them to her back in England. And now, supposing she really decided to believe in all this, and perhaps to try and stop it-to break the curse that kept Charn in existence-she would have to start somewhere. Oh, but it was all madness and stuff and…and… _nonsense_!

"It was from Charn as you know," answered Peter. "That made it important-as a king, I had to be sure there was no way Queen Jadis meant to use it against us. I can't imagine how she would, by Jove, but I thought it would be best to keep it in my sights. Now that Ed's missing, I really wish I still had it."

Susan nearly decided to risk everything on one stroke, putting her hand into the front of her dress. "If you had it-could you, I mean-would there be a way to save Edmund using it?"

He shook his head. "It might be a clue…and it would be better than nothing…but…this is Charn we're talking about…I couldn't promise anything." In a different tone, "What are you reaching for anyway?"

There was no guarantee, she wasn't going to give Peter the medallion after all. But she decided, uneasy as it made her feel, she would give him something else. She would give him Andrew Ketterley's rings.

"Here," said Susan softly, unfastening the chain that held the interlocked rings round her neck, her gaze caught between faintly guilty and overtly tender. "You wanted to see these?" She could scarcely believe she was doing this, but it wasn't so hard as she'd thought it might be; it felt far easier than she had expected, and not sorely because of guilt-also because she knew now that she trusted him.

Peter didn't know what to say. He sort of half-gaped at her absently for a moment, hesitated, then reached for the chain dangling from her out-stretched hand. The two rings, seeming to hum lightly in the quietness of the forest, caught the cool, greenish, canopied sunlight and shone even more brightly than usual as they swung from left to right like a pendulum in a grandfather clock.

As he took the chain and rings, his fingers brushed against hers and they both felt a blush rising to their cheeks. No one was looking at them (Ramandu's daughter nearly at her wit's end with Caspian at this point and Lucy, cheerfully and almost obliviously, struggling to keep the peace).

Peter did think, however passively, of North-Western Ettinsmoor, and all that word entailed in regards to what he was feeling for Susan at that moment, but these racing thoughts slowed down and eventually passed altogether. Perhaps, for what might have been one of the precious few times in the course of his dutiful life, Peter truly forgot that he was a king and was tied to obligations.

The high king leaned forward and kissed Susan Pevensie on the lips.

Back in Charn, Edmund was finally unchained from the ice-wall by order of 'Mother Jadis' and, still groggy, he began to put the finishing touches on a plan forming in his mind. It wasn't a very good plan. More likely than not, he figured it would fail. Needless to say, not all of his despair had subsided.

Edmund knew it was very hard to find the border of Charn from the inside, all the more so when the White Witch wanted it to be, and he doubted he would make it through again. The last time he'd gotten his stomach sliced open; it was a miracle he had lived to retell the tale to himself! The chances of him making it out again, what with the witch cross as anything because he'd tell her nothing of the medallion…the thought chilled his soul.

But supposing-just supposing-that Queen Jadis _wanted_ to let somebody out of Charn? She never had as far as Edmund knew, yet so readily in the front of his mind was the thought that if Charn's moving borders could swallow up and drawn in, couldn't they let out? All the more so if Queen Jadis should will it? She hadn't willed it that time before-and Edmund had been lucky enough to escape. He didn't hope for the same luck this time (you know it is a terrible thing to force yourself to believe something positive will happen, all the while knowing it won't, then truly believing-even in passing-and then, at last, to see everything crumble as you knew it would from the start) but this might be worth his life-and Tumnus's-to try.

"Mother Jadis," he said, approaching her throne as timidly as a dog with his tail between his legs comes to an abusive owner.

"What do you want?" She was angry with him, icy daggers glinted in her tight gaze.

"The faun in the dungeon," Edmund began, not daring to clue her into the fact that he knew the creature's name; she already suspected (and more or less _knew_ ) he'd been in Narnia all this time, so there was no need to make it even more apparent; "are you going to let him go?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because he can't be of use to you." Edmund fought against his trembling jaw, willing his teeth not to chatter.

"And how would you know about that?" One of the witch's light gold-almost silvery-eyebrows arched questioningly at him. "For all you know, he could be someone terribly important."

"He isn't," he dared to say, "I just know he isn't."

"Perhaps we could make a deal," said the White Witch. "Tell me who stole my medallion away from you and I'll let him go."

His eyes widened, much as he tried to force them not to. "I can't…" he stammered pathetically. Thoughts of Susan, Peter, Lucy, Caspian, and even Ramandu's daughter filled his mind (now that he was back in the presence of a real witch, he began to seriously doubt the star's child was one); he couldn't betray them like that. He already felt like a traitor, little sense as that might make. "I don't know…I don't know who…"

"All right," she said, a bitter twinge in her tone. "As you are so keen, Edmund, to see the faun returned to his own world, we shall make a bargain."

Edmund's ears tingled as he inclined them to whatever Queen Jadis was about to say, eager-and frightened-to hear what she was getting at.

"If he can go back to Narnia, his home world," she said, her dark-red lips parting into a smile, "and get for me the medallion-no more harm will befall him and I'll never trouble him again."

He thought of Susan; Tumnus mightn't be able to get it back from her-she could be stubborn. As far as Edmund knew, Peter was still trying to get those interlocking rings from her. "And if he doesn't find it?"

The witch's eyes darted over to a statue of another faun, not unlike Tumnus, though a little older and a mite stouter. Edmund realized that it hadn't always been a statue.

"He'll become like his kin here-forever." Her fingers tightened round her wand.

"But you'll send him back," Edmund made sure. If only he could see how she let him out, then he could try to follow and perhaps the two of them could figure out a way to get back to the others. And then, if they were fortunate enough to all get out of the forest before stumbling back into Charn, they might stand a chance after all.

"Of course."

"What must I do?" he asked, knowing that the witch wasn't likely to make a direct bargain with a Narnian faun; she considered such creatures too far under her greatness to bother with that. The deal, he was certain, would have to involve himself somehow.

"You will be the one who tells the faun that he has to look for the medallion, and it will be the last thing you say for a while, little princeling." She called him 'princeling' mockingly sometimes in allusion to the fact that he was her adopted son; he hated this, and she knew it, thus it gave her even more pleasure to address him as such. "There is something of yours on the line as well."

Of course there was, that was how she worked.

"After the faun has agreed to take the bargain, as I've no doubt you'll persuade him," she explained, "you will drink a potion I shall give you. It will take away your voice; you will never speak again until the medallion is returned."

That wouldn't be so bad, Edmund thought, if I can follow him out of the world, I'll still be free. I'd rather be mute and free than have no one worth speaking to in this castle and keep my voice for ever.

"The faun will be given a week," Jadis went on. "Each day he does not get the medallion, each day he wastes, you will lose a little bit of memory of your time away from Charn."

Edmund gulped; he couldn't help it. That sounded unpleasant. Even if he got out with Tumnus, as he was starting to think she would prevent him from doing, memory loss would be pretty rough. Imagine not knowing what was going on, imagine not knowing who Peter and Lucy were…and Susan…he wouldn't even necessarily remember it was she who had the medallion to begin with-or how it was his own fault she had gotten stuck with it.

But there seemed no way out of it at the time. If anything, it would give Tumnus a chance. He didn't like endangering the others, but if it was only the medallion Jadis wanted...

"I'll do it."

"I thought you would," she said sharply. "Maugrim!"

Maugrim answered her. "Yes, my Queen?"

"Take Edmund down to the dungeon, there is someone he must speak with. Oh, and tell the snow-ogre to release the faun."

Tumnus was 'released' by a steel mallet being slammed against the chains that kept his goat-feet bound; and Edmund shuddered inwardly-flinching outwardly-at his pain.

Feeling foolish, Edmund told Tumnus about the deal with the White Witch. More than anything, he wanted to explain the part of the plan that involved them both getting free; he wanted so badly to plead with him to grab onto his arm on his way across the border, not to leave him behind in Charn. He didn't want to be Edmund of Charn anymore. But he couldn't so much as hint about his notion of 'take me with you' because Maugrim and the snow-ogre (still holding his mallet and looking quite fierce) were looking right at them.

"Edmund, the medallion went missing before we left Cair Paravel," Tumnus murmured, incredulously. "How would I…"

"Our spies have placed it here," Maugrim cut-in. "The girl has it."

Edmund's stomach did a summersault. They knew? Suddenly it all flashed into his mind how they had gone after Susan back in the forest instead of going for him directly, and he felt stupid for not having seen it before. Had Jadis been playing mind-games with him? If the wolves knew, surely she did, too. Or maybe they hadn't told her? Why wouldn't they though? They had no reason to keep it secret. Was she planning something? Had he stupidly, thinking he was protecting the others, just played into her hands? Yet, why would she want to send Tumnus? Her wolves could tear Susan to pieces and take the medallion, so why would the witch send a faun who wouldn't dream of hurting her? Was it because of the dragon? Was she afraid it would come after her wolves again and now determined to work from the inside? What exactly had he done?

"Which girl?"

"The one the high king fancies," said the wolf captain darkly.

Tumnus grimaced, not at the thought of Susan herself, but rather at the thought of both Peter's obligation to North-Western Ettinsmoor and the thought of having to somehow get the medallion off of her. Partly, he was upset that she had taken it in the first place; he wondered how the high king would react to that. If it had been an option, he would have refused the mission; but it hadn't been his choice at all, it had been Edmund's. And Edmund had-however foolishly-already given his word, thus making the decision.

A few moments later, they stood in the White Witch's throne room. She first produced a clear, jeweled goblet that looked not unlike the one she'd used to drug Edmund before. It was filled with some pale yellowish-green liquid with the consistency and texture of coconut milk.

"Drink it," she ordered.

Tumnus wanted to cry out for him to do no such thing, but his cheeks felt swollen and he wasn't permitted to speak in the presence of the queen of Charn again; the wolves had already told him he would be put to death immediately if he did. The faun thus thought it would be wiser to get back to Narnia and tell Peter what had happened, than to be killed before any warnings could be made.

Edmund lifted the cup to his lips and drank it down quickly; it felt cold running down his throat and it had a faint after-taste of seaweed.

As he was drinking, Jadis lifted her wand and turned Tumnus into stone. Horrified, Edmund tried to cry out, "No!" but his voice was already gone. A second later the statue that had been Tumnus disappeared, reappearing in Narnia. What he hadn't understood was that this wasn't a complete betrayal on the witch's part; she was only turning him to stone for transportation now, so that Edmund could not go anywhere with him, could not escape through invisible borders. He would not remain a statue forever unless he failed, then he would become one again and never revert.

Still, Edmund's attempted scream irked her and she slapped him across the face for it.

In Narnia, through the medallion, Susan felt unwell all of a sudden as if she had just swallowed some sort of gross mixture. Her throat closed for a moment and she felt like she wanted to hurl. This occurred directly after Peter kissed her.

She vomited in the bushes and then tried to apologize. At first she found she had no voice, then it was hoarse for a while until it became mostly normal again yet with a faint raspy under-tone that hadn't been there before. Was it possible she was getting the flu? She couldn't help wondering.

By that time they all had to start walking again, and Peter went back to talking with Ramandu's daughter.

"I have a hypothetical question," he said in a low voice. "If a boy kisses a girl and she throws up, what does that mean?"

Ramandu's daughter tried not to laugh (she hadn't seen what happened with Susan so she didn't know what he was talking about). "Nothing good for the boy."

A fearful little cry from Lucy distracted Peter from whatever thoughts about Susan, North-Western Ettinsmoor, the rings (he now wore the chain round his own neck till he was ready to give it back to her), and vomiting came into his head next.

She had good reason to cry out, even to weep or scream if she so wished it, for, going a little ahead of the others, she had come to what could almost be called a clearing save for the fact that it was on the smallish side and the trees were not evenly spaced apart where they stopped, and there stood a statue of cold, gray marble-stone that looked exactly like Tumnus.

Although he had not been carrying the lantern with him when the witch had transported him back, he was holding it by the handle in his left hand now and, while one couldn't be completely sure since it was as much a piece of stone as he currently was and thus shed no light, did not seem to be broken.

"Oh, Peter, look!" Lucy managed to exclaim, gazing at Tumnus with tears in her eyes, beginning quite a pitiful round of blubbing.

Susan, who's throat had been feeling rather funny though she'd told Peter (her face red as anything from embarrassment) that she was fine, saw him and felt she was going to be sick all over again.

Caspian muttered something that was supposed to be consoling and put an arm around Lucy, but she shrugged it off and went closer to the statue.

Ramandu's daughter hung back and said she didn't think it was safe; there was some wicked enchantment a-foot and she was certain that if Edmund were with them still, he would have agreed with her. This, however, despite his fascination with the star's daughter, made Caspian take a step closer almost entirely out of spite.

"I _say_ ," said Susan, looking at the lantern while the others stared into Tumnus's stone face-which looked agitated; "what's that flickering coming from the middle of that part of the stone?"

The lantern had begun to thaw and change from stone to proper glass and black-iron, and a flame burned within. Then Tumnus's hand and arm changed to flesh. This was followed by a gasp from a chest and throat that were still too hard to move. Lucy's tears started to lessen, and she peered hopefully through the remainder of them as a muffler Tumnus had been wearing round his neck became soft fabric again and flopped in the woodsy breeze.

The little foundling princess lurched forward and caught the faun before he fell from the shock of his transformation.

"Lucy?" he said, blinking, lightly pressing two of his fingers against the lower part of her chin.

She threw her arms round his middle and hugged him tightly. Peter clapped him on the back and asked him if he remembered anything about where he had been. But Tumnus said nothing about Charn right away, instead he looked over at Susan with a very sad expression on his face.

She lowered her eyes, feeling ashamed as if all this was her own fault. And she was as satisfied as she thought she was going to get for the time being that she wasn't only causing trouble in a dream.


	13. Susan White part one

"High King," said Tumnus gravely, "might I speak with you alone?" There was desperation in the faun's eyes, so Peter told everybody else to fall back, promising to let them know if anything was truly wrong with Tumnus-if he wasn't all right now.

"What happened to you?" asked Peter when the others were out of ear-shot.

"I've been in Charn," he replied, "Your Majesty."

"Edmund…" -his eyes darted over towards Lucy for a split second, thinking of his foundling sister's playfellow- "…was he…?"

"Yes," said Tumnus, "but it's worse than that, your Grace, much worse."

"How so?"

"He's been captured by the White Witch-as was I-and the last I saw him he was drinking something she was giving him."

"Poison?"

"I shouldn't think so, but if it's better than poison, it wouldn't be by much."

"There's more?" Peter noticed the strained expression coiling over Tumnus's face.

"Much more! The witch wants…she wants…the reason she let me come back…she wants the medallion Edmund was wearing when we found him."

"But I haven't got it," gasped Peter, as quietly as possible. "None of us do."

"I'm afraid that's not strictly true."

"What?" Peter's jaw-line tensed up angrily, wondering which of his companions had betrayed them.

A few feet away, Caspian and Susan were talking while Lucy and Ramandu's daughter sat on the ground, glancing occasionally over at Tumnus, taking in-even from that distance-the anxious look on Peter's face, wondering what could have happened. What could they possibly discussing that made them so somber and grave?

"He looks upset," commented Susan, wringing her hands a little while she spoke.

"Which one?" muttered Caspian, shaking his head in confusion; both the faun _and_ the high king looked pretty distraught to him.

She had meant Peter, but she said, to be polite, "Both."

"The last time I saw High King Peter look half so glum was when his betrothal was announced." Caspian said this very nonchalantly, but of course it caught Susan's attention at once.

"B-b-betrothal?" she stammered, her face gone rather pale.

"You didn't know?" Caspian didn't pick up on her dejected, hurt expression. "He's been engaged to marry the Duke of North-Western Ettinsmoor's daughter for years."

He really ought to have mentioned that, thought Susan bitterly, especially considering that he kissed me.

She wished she hadn't given him Andrew Ketterley's rings after all; if she couldn't trust him to be honest with her, how could she possibly trust him with something that could be, for all she knew now, if this really was not a dream, her only way home? She felt stupid, feeling that she really ought to have seen passed his courtly kindness. Obviously, he wasn't as good a person as she had begun to take him for. At least Caspian had the sense to let her know what was going on, even if he did so without thinking about it.

Needless to say, both Peter and Susan were rather cross with each other when they met up. He was angry because she had the medallion (as far as he knew she was the one who took it in the first place); and she was furious that he hadn't so much as once said, 'oh, by the way, I'm sort of betrothed.'

"Is it true?" she asked him, her expression tight.

As he'd been about to ask her more or less the same thing, he was a little stunned by her saying that. "Is what true?"

"Are you betrothed?"

For a second he forgot about the medallion and felt nearly over-whelmed by guilt. "Yes, I'm sorry. Susan, I-"

"Well, that was nicely handled," said Susan, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she turned round and started to walk away.

"Hey, wait a second!" Peter reached out to grab her arm. "Perhaps I should have told you about North-Western Ettinsmoor-I'm sorry I didn't, really I am, Susan-but you lied to me, too."

Susan pulled her arm away from his grip, scowled at him, and said, "I never lied to you."

"I know you have the medallion," he said, clearly frustrated. "How could you? Do you realize that, thanks to you, now Tumnus and maybe-for all I know-all of Narnia could be danger. The White Witch wants her emblem back, and I don't know for what means."

She went cold all over, a shiver racing up her spine. "I was only trying to help."

"Right, Susan, spare me." His nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Well, if there's any danger, it's all _your_ fault," she scoffed, "not mine."

" _My_ fault?" Peter echoed in disbelief.

"If you hadn't taken the medallion from Edmund in the first place, none of this would be happening!"

"Oh, yes, that makes sense," sneered Peter insincerely. "What was I supposed to do? I didn't know him, and I had my country to think about. Besides, if you hadn't put your little button nose into matters of state and taken it, why then-"

"I didn't take it!" cried Susan, not willing to take the fall entirely while still not ready to sell out poor misguided Edmund, either. It was easier to blame King Peter for all this, considering she was already mad at him. "And, so we're clear, I do _not_ have a button nose."

"I can't believe you're lying to my face now," Peter told her. "First," -he shook his head and started counting on his fingers in disbelief- "You take the medallion, then you have it all this time, tell me nothing about it, and you have the blasted nerve to try and act innocent."

"That's it," said Susan, turning around once again. "I'm leaving."

"Where are you going?"

"Away," she said, still walking at a fast-pace. Everybody else saw how worked-up she was and didn't try to stop her.

"Away where?" Peter persisted.

"I don't know," she said. "Away from you."

"We're in the middle of a forest, there's no where for you to go!"

"I'll figure something out. I refuse to spend one more dratted minute under your hypocritical leadership."

"Don't be like that," he said, his tone a little softer just then. "I-"

"Oh, shut it, will you, Peter?" This came out even more harshly than she meant it because she felt tears coming up into her eyes, and she was determined not only that she would not cry about this, but also that if she couldn't help it, then at least she wouldn't let him _see_ her cry.

"You know," Caspian said in a low voice to Ramandu's daughter regarding Susan's out-burst, "I think, considering that he is still the high king of Narnia, 'please be quiet, your Majesty' would have been sufficient."

It wasn't until she had stomped off and left the others quite a long ways behind that Susan came to her senses and realized how impractical her choice to go on her own had been. Peter could have been a lot worse than he actually was and it still would have been a foolish decision. There was safety in numbers after all, she remembered. And, of course, Peter still had her rings, and she still had Edmund's (or, rather, the witch's) medallion.

Perhaps a proper exchange had been in order. Though, to be honest, Susan felt as if Edmund had entrusted her with his medallion somehow, since he had hidden it under her horse's saddle. And now that he wasn't with them, absurd as the notion was when she thought it out, it seemed almost like betraying him to give it up. She would have to, though, she was fairly certain; Tumnus needed it…something to do with a horrible enchantment the White Witch was holding over him? But that was all rot, really, it had to be! How on earth…well, it couldn't be true, even if it didn't feel like a dream, even if…even if all of it was real…even if she admitted she had been wrong all the time…the enchantments…there were no such things! Of course there weren't. Tumnus simply must be delusional or else crazed by some real, explainable horror he had faced in the woods. Then again, he had been a statue turned to flesh-and-hooves right before her eyes, there was no way of getting around that. Unless, provided, she was going mad, too.

At any rate, common sense settled her boiling blood and Susan knew that she must, no matter what the consequences were, go and find the others again. So she turned round and started on what she assumed was the way back to where Lucy, Peter, Caspian, Ramandu's daughter, and Tumnus were, but alas there must have been some mistake, for she didn't find them. Either by sheer bad luck she had mistakenly struck a wrong path that only _looked_ similar to the one she'd seen before, or else some other evil was at work and the trees (if there were any bad or silly ones about) were playing a wicked trick on her; but the result, whatever the cause, was the same: she became hopelessly lost.

The first few paces her pride still stung and she refused to call out in hopes that she would be heard and found (what it was Peter of all people that found her?), but as the light changed-naturally or unnaturally-so did her demeanor. Susan still wanted nothing so bad as she wanted to get out of the woods and the forest altogether, and by this point she didn't care if Peter had to come and help her, so she cried out. There was no answer, they must have been too far away to hear, and she wished-almost feverishly-that she had used the good sense that she was so jolly proud of, swallowed her pride sooner, and stayed put instead of stomping her feet and going away from the rest of the group.

Then she saw, in the distance, but not so far off as it ought to have been, being clearly some sort of wild creature, a flash of soft, gleaming white. It was the stag, the one they'd all followed into the thicket to begin with. Susan did not start more or less tracing its steps because she was thinking of wishes, or any similar sentiments, she simply got the feeling it wanted her to follow it.

For, from it's general direction, she heard a faint, "Psst…" and she couldn't help muttering to herself, "Did that stag just 'psst' me?"

It's hide was so pure that it nearly glowed; and Susan decided that if anyone (though there wasn't anybody else about) asked why she was following the magically stunning creature, she would simply tell them she was hoping the others in her former hunting party were chasing it and thus would find her. This was not strictly true, yet it satisfied Susan's practical side.

While at the start she wondered how she would ever keep up with slim-legged, quickly-moving white stag, it seemed to understand her fears and, though keeping a firm distance that never waned, not so much as once letting her come close enough to touch it, the clever beast always stayed within the span of her eye-sight so that she could not lose the trace.

When Susan stopped to catch her breath in a small, greenish, slightly sloped-in area a few feet away from a circle of ridiculously tall, leafy trees, the stag broke into a sprint and all but disappeared.

For a moment she was upset that it had left her-and was cross with herself for following it-but then she thought she saw, very far off, towards where the sun was beginning to set, the shape of a great golden Lion, and the stag was approaching it. The Lion was so beautiful that the stag's elegance paled in comparison, but Susan found she was afraid that the big cat, however lovely and golden, was going to swallow up the poor white stag. She wished he wouldn't, really she did. To her astonishment, the Lion merely pressed his nose against the stag's velvety cream-coloured muzzle as if to say, "Well done," or something along those lines.

The sun was in her eyes; Susan blinked. The Lion and the white stag were both gone.

"I imagined it," Susan told herself, "I know I did. There wasn't any lion and maybe there wasn't even a stag…likely, I simply followed a hallucination. I am terribly thirsty after all. Seeing things, though, that's not good."

"Who's there?" said a deep, but somehow little, voice from three feet or so above the nearby ground.

Susan looked round and finally caught sight of a black dwarf (that is, his beard was coarse blackish with streaks of gray in it-his face, save for where it was a bit sun-burned was fair, white).

"Hullo," she said politely.

"Who are you?" demanded the dwarf.

"Susan," she introduced herself. "Susan Pevensie."

"Hallo!" said a voice rather like the black dwarf's but a bit nicer-sounding. A red dwarf (his beard was red, like a fox's fur, just as the other one's was black) came out from a hole under the thick, intertwining roots of the nearest great cedar tree which Susan now saw must be a home of a sort, where these two dwarfs presumably lived. "Nikabrik, who are you talking to?"

"A girl, Duffle," said Nikabrik tersely. "A stranger in these parts. A spy, perhaps. I think I should knock her out until we're certain."

Susan instinctively took a step backwards, noticing that Nikabrik held a rather large broken-off tree branch in one hand (it was only an inch or so shorter than his body was).

"You never spoke a word that became you less, Nikabrik," growled Duffle, glancing over at Susan with a kind, reassuring expression. "If you dare to try anything of the sort on a lady, then Trufflehunter and I will sit on your head."

A black-and-white furry face poked out of the tree-house-hole and said more or less the same thing, very much in agreement with Duffle. This, as you might have guessed, was Trufflehunter, and he was a badger.

A little more relaxed now, Susan took a few steps nearer.

Another dwarf, who's name was Poggin, came out ("I wonder how ever many dwarfs are actually down there!" thought Susan) and said that they couldn't let a lady stay out over-night in the forest by herself. It was getting dark, he pointed out, best let her come inside, at least for one night. Nikabrik disagreed, but Poggin, Trufflehunter, and Duffle over-ruled him.

The next thing Susan knew, she was led down the hole into a tight-spaced, cozy little woodland home underground. She didn't have to duck quite so much as she'd thought she would, but she had to take caution of low doorways and hanging beams all the same, lest she get a nasty blow to the forehead.

She saw there was a surprisingly tidy fireplace (Trufflehunter kept house and was very good at it) and bits of little furniture that had probably been very fine once but had fallen on hard times, being repaired in less than pleasant-looking manners.

In a shadowy corner where the light from the grate did not fall so clearly, there sat three dwarfs-all red bearded like Duffle. The first of the three had the kindest-though slightly grumpy-face of the lot and there was a sensibleness about him that Susan liked right away. The other two were blank-faced and made her think of Tweedledum and Tweedledee from ' _Through The Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There'_ which her mother had read to her as a child-against Aunt Alberta's protests that story-books were bad for young minds.

"This is Trumpkin," said Poggin, pointing to the dwarf Susan liked best. "And these are Duffle's brothers."

"What do we call them?" asked Susan.

"Duffle's brothers." Trufflehunter shrugged his shoulders as if it were obvious; Nikabrik scoffed to himself.

"Why didn't I think of that?" muttered Susan, a mite sarcastically.

"They don't talk much," Duffle explained.

"I can't remember the last time I heard them say a single word," grumped Nikabrik.

Trufflehunter rolled his eyes.

"This is Susan," Poggin told Trumpkin. "She's spending the night with us."

Trumpkin's eyes flickered to Nikabrik.

"Don't look at me," said the black dwarf sourly. "I'm dead against it."

"He wanted to hit her with a stick," growled Trufflehunter angrily.

"Pegs and Pail-drums!" exclaimed Trumpkin. "It's not the lady's fault she got lost outside our home. And I suppose we'd best make room for her."

"Since when did we open a boarding house?" Nikabrik snapped.

"She can have the little room over there," said Duffle, motioning over at the room he meant while he spoke. "It has the largest bed. Nikabrik can share with Trumpkin."

"Always me that gets shorted when these courtiers go gallivanting about like they own the place," Nikabrik grumbled, scowling at Susan.

"I'm not a courtier at all," she protested, "or, at least, not a proper one-I was only visiting…but I thought it was a dream…"

"Oh, regardless," said Duffle, "don't listen to Nikabrik. He's our friend, but he can be a terrible cold-hearted brute when he gets the notion."

"He just needs something to grumble about every now and again," Trumpkin added.

"I don't suppose anyone thought of asking Duffle's brothers what they think of the wench," Nikabrik said over his shoulder, sticking a poker in the fireplace to turn a log. "They haven't spoken up in at least two years. Maybe they'll prove to have some sense after all."

One of Duffle's brother's blinked absently while the other murmured something that sounded like, "The dwarfs are for the dwarfs."

"Idiots," said Nikabrik, shaking his head and putting the poker down. "Useless, both of 'em."

"Here you are," said Trufflehunter to Susan, coming over with a tray that had a bowl of something that smelled wonderful and tickled her nose-hairs delightfully and a cup of cold water. "Nice hot soup."

"Thank you," said Susan gratefully as one of Duffle's brothers handed her a wooden spoon to eat with.

In Charn, unbeknownst to Susan or Lucy, Peter, Caspian, Ramandu's daughter, and Tumnus who were looking for her, Queen Jadis peered into her ice-carved, silver-rimmed, looking-glass which permitted her, upon occasion, to see passed the borders of Charn into Narnia and, once in a while, into other worlds as well. It could only show her certain things, and more often than not, it could never reveal persons that were more than twenty feet away from where Charn's border currently was. But, along with allowing Susan to have a connection to Edmund, the medallion unfortunately also let the White Witch see her in the looking-glass sometimes. This was one of those times, and Jadis smirked and glared by turn as she pondered over the situation.

"Edmund," said the witch, turning away from her looking-glass to where her adopted son was sitting, "it looks as though your voice might be out of reach a little longer; your faun is failing us. He's already lost her. But worry not, dear one, Mother Jadis has this well in hand. Your memories might suffer, but you'll have your voice back soon enough. What we need is a way to slow the girl down until that faun can reach her and take the medallion back."

Edmund opened his mouth to protest, knowing at once that she meant to hurt Susan somehow, but of course no sound came out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Cliff hanger...hanging from a cliff...and that's why he's called cliff hanger! 
> 
> Sorry, couldn't resist.


	14. Susan White part two

Edmund watched helplessly as Jadis smoothly slid a translucent, pale silver ring-plain as ice, yet bright as sunlight on newly fallen snow-off of one of her fingers, smiled a knowing, bitter smile at it as it rested in her white palm, and turned to him, her eyes fairly sparkling.

Slowly, the witch over-turned her hand so that the ring fell to the icy floor, all the while growing bigger and denser and whiter-less sheer-as it tumbled, seemingly in slow-motion. When it finally made contact with the ground, it was no longer a ring at all but, rather, a white apple with a silver stem and a single ebony leaf the size of a pinky-finger's nail growing from the top of it.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Jadis bent down and picked up the apple, letting it rest between her two palms. "The perfect apple, white like snow-like winter."

Edmund, voiceless, could say nothing; and even if he could have, he might have been too stunned and afraid to speak up at the moment. A few tears escaped and froze to his cheeks. He hastily brushed them away, in spite of the pain of pieces of his skin being torn off along with them. He would not, he decided, give 'Mother Jadis' the satisfaction. The White Witch had already taken from him his hope, his voice, and his friends; he would not let her take every last bit of whatever was left of his dignity as well.

Taking no note of Edmund's strained face, or perhaps secretly pleased with it though not saying so, Jadis brought the apple closer to her face and kissed one of its cheeks. The side of the apple her lips touched instantly turned red as blood while the other half remained white-unstained, unblemished, still pure.

"As white as innocence," mused the witch, holding the apple up so that only the white cheek was visible from where Edmund sat.

He blinked; hardening wetness on his eyelashes made them stick together and he had to break a few of them off before he could open them all the way again.

Then the witch, as speedily as a winter wind, turned the apple so that the red cheek faced him. "And as red as guilt and sin." She sighed to herself contentedly (or as close to contented as her sort ever get), adding, "The white is as harmless as drinking snow; but one bite of the red, well, she won't be traveling much further in the forest."

With that, Jadis lifted her wand and carved out the shape of a circle into the ice, letting the cut-away part fall through, causing one of Charn's borders to take on a round shape, making a portal into one of the Narnian trees.

Edmund grimaced as a mournful, agitated scream came through the other end. For by taking over that tree, the witch had killed it's dryad. Looking to the mirror (the witch's looking-glass), he could see, clear as daylight, the tree his adoptive mother had brutally murdered; it was encased in ice, very like any tree you might see in Charn. Next, his eyes shifted back to Jadis who casually dropped the apple down into the portal.

Thinking it was his only chance both to escape (voice or no voice) and to warn Susan before it was too late, Edmund leapt up and made a running jump for the portal. He meant to grab the apple as he fell through. If nothing else, even if he was trapped in the dead tree till the end of time, he would stop the poisoned fruit from reaching its target.

Quick as lightning, sensing exactly what he was up to, the witch's hand shot out and she grabbed his arm so tightly he thought she was going to twist it right off.

The apple fell into the portal without interference; and Jadis grabbed his face with her free hand, twisting it so that he was forced to see what was happening in her looking-glass. And what a horrible sight it was! The apple-so beautiful, so horrid-grew out of the dead tree, and as soon as it was settled, the ice and frost disappeared. Its trunk gleamed healthily, not looking dead at all. And the apple hung very low, looking harmless and deliciously appealing.

It would be fairly accurate to say that Susan was oblivious of what was going on in Charn while she awoke-a little after dawn-in the small, neat bedroom the dwarfs had lent her the use of for the night. More exact, however, would be to say that she was unaware of any direct plotting against her. For, as you already know, the medallion's powers were not all working in accordance with what Jadis wanted; and Susan sensed Edmund's discomfort and fear the very moment her eyes opened. But, being practical, she shrugged it off as a 'bad dream' she had forgotten or else the shock of waking up someplace one wasn't familiar with. It is, after all, probably rather alarming to wake up in a hole where six dwarfs live with a badger even under the best of circumstances, so she can hardly be blamed for being a little stunned and attributing her nerves to this feeling accordingly.

Nikabrik was still grumpy in the morning, and although the others remained friendly enough, Susan couldn't help feeling like a bit of a burden. Someone had had to give up their bed last night and there was one extra mouth to feed; so it seemed the least she could do to help Trufflehunter with the housework for an hour or so after breakfast before biding everybody goodbye and getting ready to go on her way.

While she was sorting through the laundry (Trufflehunter was fetching the baskets so that they could bring the dirty garments down to the nearest stream for washing later), Susan discovered a bit of what looked like slightly-frayed lace in the pocket of one of Duffle's brothers, and a small comb made out of either gold or else very fine brass the other's. Shaking her head, she sighed to herself absently. It wasn't any of her business what sort of rubbish they decided to keep in their pockets. She did hope, though, that the comb was brass, because it would have been terribly irresponsible of them to leave real gold lying about like that.

When the washing was all set and the dishes were cleaned and put away in the rough-wood cupboards and the fireplace was swept up and polished so well that even Nikabrik had something that was very nearly a compliment to say about her (and Trufflehunter's) work, Susan took her leave.

"Lady Susan," said Trumpkin to her quietly so that the others could not hear, "if you ever need us, we'll be here."

"I don't suppose Nikabrik would like my taking you up on that," she laughed. "But don't be terribly surprised if I do. It's only logical to remember where your friends are. I'll be very glad if I've been wrong-and I'm right now-so that this isn't a dream. I think I'd miss you when I woke up." It was true that she did not know Trumpkin terribly well, but she felt as if she did.

"Tell the others thank you from me." Susan remembered her manners. "Don't forget to say something especially nice to Trufflehunter, Poggin, and Duffle-they've been perfect dears."

She had not gotten far from the dwarf and badger's residence when she came to the tree Jadis had taken over and saw the beautiful poison (but of course she didn't know it was poisoned) red-and-white apple.

Back in Charn, Edmund wanted to scream. Not only was he powerless to stop what was about to happen to Susan, but Jadis was forcing him to watch it, still holding his face in the direction of the looking-glass.

"Susan!" he shouted in his head. "Don't, don't! It's poison! It's a trap!"

Although he was mute, and there was no way-even if he'd had his voice still-that Susan could have heard him crying out all the way in Narnia, for a split-second she did hear Ed's voice. It came from the medallion, she thought; but she couldn't understand it-only that it was dreadfully upset and trembling with fear. And then she thought she had only imagined it, for it faded into nothing.

Without thinking much of it, she reached out and plucked the apple, cleaning it on her sleeve.

She brought it to her lips; Edmund prayed she'd bite into the white-cheek and perhaps decide she wasn't hungry enough for the whole thing. It was his only hope. But it was a vain one in the end; Susan's teeth sunk right into the skin of the red-cheek and a full bite of poison apple went first into her mouth, then down into her throat.

With a gasp and a horrid choking sound, her eyes closed and she fell to the forest-floor, landing sprawled out on a pile of dead leaves, completely unconscious.

Sensing her adopted son's thoughts, knowing they were full of pity and mournfulness for the fallen girl, Jadis gripped his face even more tightly and hissed, "Think about who's side you're on, Edmund. Mine," she pulled his face in her direction and forced him to look into her eyes and at the wolves standing by her throne of ice directly behind her. "Or theirs." She moved his face back to the looking-glass so that he saw Susan lying as still as if she were dead.

As soon as he was released, Edmund himself sank to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest. He didn't care that he looked babyish doing so, he was too distressed to worry about something as trivial as that.

"She can't have come this far," said Caspian, back in the part of the forest Susan had left behind when she stormed off. "Or else we've gone the wrong way."

"We could try east," Peter said, somewhat wearily.

"This _is_ east," sighed Ramandu's daughter, her tone oddly despairing.

"No," Peter insisted, taking Lucy's hand and helping her step over a big log in the middle of their path, "this is west."

"I'm a star's daughter, I think I know directions."

"I'm a high king," he retorted. "I've been forced to study maps and charts and sky-paths before I learned to crawl."

"No," said Ramandu's daughter, swallowing hard. "You don't understand."

"What is there to understand?" he said, frustrated, but also genuinely confused by her reaction. "Last night, when the stars were out, I saw the leopard and the ship-they were facing that way…" he motioned to the left with one hand. "So…this would be east, wouldn't it?"

"The sun _did_ rise over there," Caspian pointed to the opposite direction, on Ramandu's daughter's side for obvious reasons.

Peter hadn't noticed that; he'd been too worried about Susan. "Did it?"

"It did." Ramandu's daughter nodded.

"Well that's just great," he grumbled. "I've been leading us all the wrong way."

"It's not your fault, Peter," the star's daughter told him.

"How is it not?" he sighed. "It has to be."

"No, it's not." She looked down at her feet. "Oh, Peter, I should have told you before…it wasn't the White Witch or one of her crew who locked me in that tower; it was the other stars. My father didn't want them to, that's why they made the lock the way they did…so that any piteous relatives couldn't free me."

"But why would they do that?" Caspian asked softly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Didn't I?" she asked pointedly.

Peter's eyes widened. "Helping Edmund…"

"Exactly," she whispered.

"So the stars…"

"Were leading us the wrong way last night, yes." There was a faint trace of tears welling up in her starry eyes. "I'm sorry; I was too ashamed to admit it. They're angry with me. If we want to get out, we can't count on their help. All this time, I've more or less had only one friend in the world."

"Eustace Clarence," said Peter, remembering his dream.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I had a dream about him…he was the dragon who saved us from the wolves."

"And the only one who could fly high enough to visit me."

"Why didn't he release you?" Caspian wanted to know. "After all, he's not a relative."

"He's a changeling, stolen away from another world," she explained. "And he's under a terrible enchantment. He rarely ever takes on his proper human form-and you know a dragon's claw is no good for turning locks and breaking magic chains."

"King Peter," said Caspian suddenly, not meaning to change the subject, simply having noticed something; "where's Lucy?" The second Peter had let go of her hand, it seemed, she had wandered off.

"Not again," muttered Peter. Being a protective person he was naturally more disposed to anger over Lucy's curiosity and disappearances just as a mother is more upset with her own child for running out into traffic than she is with a stranger's off-spring; so though he cursed under his breath in a manner rather unbefitting him, it was not because of any true lack of love and tenderness on his part.

Thankfully she had not wandered far, only to the next row of trees. She was standing next to a great scaly dragon when they found her, stroking its hideous snout and even screwing up the courage to kiss its face. She seemed to be wondering, 'is this what we were all so afraid of during the wolf-attack?'

"It's all right," Ramandu's daughter hastily assured them. "It's only Eustace." This was mostly for Tumnus and Caspian's benefit as Peter had already more or less guessed that from the fact that the dragon wasn't trying to eat her or blow smoke at them. There weren't any nice _real_ dragons; but there might be a kindly-meaning changeling dragon.

The dragon noticed the others and began to back away from Lucy submissively, lowering its ugly head.

Ramandu's daughter approached the creature and said, "How are you, my friend?"

A light snort came from the dragon instead of any words.

"Oh, of course!" said Tumnus, more to himself than to anyone else. "I never did know of a dragon-real or not-who could speak."

"Hello, Eustace," Peter greeted him in the kingliest manner he could muster up under the circumstances. He stared into the dragon's eyes for a moment, and found the most remarkable thing: he could understand him just as Ramandu's daughter seemed to, though the others-even Lucy-could not.

"What's that?" He crinkled his brow, squinting as the dragon jerked his head, trying to tell him something.

"What on earth…" began Caspian.

"Listen," said Peter, getting excited now, "he's seen Susan."

"Really?" Tumnus looked puzzled and unconvinced.

"Yes!" Peter gasped, a little breathlessly. "And he's telling me where she is."

"I can't hear anything," whispered the faun to Lucy, "am I bewitched, or is the high king?"

"I don't know," said Lucy. Honestly, she couldn't hear anything either, but she believed with all her heart that Peter wasn't only shamming.

"She's near a tree somewhere," the high king said at last.

"Well that's helpful," muttered Tumnus.

"There are only over a thousand trees here." Caspian rolled his eyes.

"No," Ramandu's daughter spoke up for Peter, "Eustace says he'd know it if he saw it again."

Peter tried not to think about how if Susan had been there with them, she would have said something along the lines of, "He's a dragon, he's not _saying_ anything!" and found he missed her.

Meanwhile, Trumpkin and Duffle had gone out to get some more wood for their fireplace as it was easier to look for firewood in the daytime than squinting about at dusk, and had come to the place where the poisoned Susan was.

The apple had rolled away and vanished into the borders of Charn, which had since disappeared from that area, so there was no clue as to what had caused the 'accident' to happen; but they knew they couldn't just leave her lying there. With heavy hearts, they took her back to their underground tree-home.

Nikabrik off-handedly said it was all a bit tragic, and was cross when they suggested putting her in his bed again. He would have none of that and tersely muttered, "I say bury her before she starts to smell or one of us is blamed for her murder."

"Nikabrik!" snapped Trufflehunter, baring his teeth. "How dare you! The poor girl…supposing she isn't really dead at all?"

"She looks it, though, doesn't she?" said Poggin sadly, holding his hat in his hand and looking down at her with tears in his little eyes.

Duffle's brothers looked sad for the time-span of about three seconds before getting distracted and forgetting all about her; they were no help at all.

"I've an idea," said Duffle finally; "at least for now."

"Let's hear it," Nikabrik said gruffly.

"We've got a nice Narnian-velvet hammock tucked away somewhere about this house. What if we hung it between two trees and placed her in it?"

"And ruin a perfectly good hammock?" Nikabrik arched a brow.

Trumpkin lit his pipe, took a few puffs, and then over-ruled Nikabrik, reluctantly agreeing with Duffle's plan.

"She's too beautiful to put underground, at any rate," said Poggin.

"We'll have to take turns watching her," Trufflehunter reminded them. "Unless we want vultures to come and pick her clean when we're not looking."

Nikabrik said something rude under his breath.

"It's a pity that the first result of this is not to help the poor girl, but to lose us one worker." Trumpkin looked a bit forlorn. "But I'm not convinced she's dead-whatever you say, Nikabrik-so I don't see what else there is to do."

In the end, she was placed on the hammock and, while it was Trumpkin's turn to watch over her, a dragon landed nearby, leading a royal party behind him. Having been at court before, Trumpkin recognized the high king and bowed to him graciously. The others were less familiar, but he was courteous with them, too.

As soon as Peter saw Susan-and the condition she was in-he raced to her side, kingly duties the furthest thing from his mind.

Almost instantly, he felt tears rolling down his face, for he realized too late-however hopeless it was and always had been-that he was in love with her. Why he hadn't seen it clearly before, he could only wonder. He even thought, silly as it seemed, much as he knew how Susan would have teased and scoffed at him over it if she had been well, that he might have loved her from that first day she fell through his mirror back in Cair Paravel. He wasn't sure what he was going to do about North-Western Ettinsmoor, surely some trouble was at hand over that, but he knew that he couldn't keep his promise to them after all; he couldn't marry the duke's daughter. Tumnus had been right to worry.

"Oh, Susan," he whispered, reaching into the hammock and lightly stroking one of her cheeks with the back of his hand. "I'm so sorry."

"Does your Majesty know the lady?" Trumpkin asked in surprise.

Peter nodded, swallowing hard.

There were tears in Lucy's eyes, too, and Caspian and Ramandu's daughter looked unsettled. Tumnus was anxious both over her apparent fallen health and over what he was to do about the medallion now. It would be a horrid thing to just take it from her, and he daren't ask the high king to do so right then; but thinking of poor Edmund back in Charn, voiceless and likely beginning to lose his memory by this point, he felt as if he should be doing _something_.

"We will take her with us," said Caspian.

"No, you won't, your Majesties," said Trumpkin, now seeing Caspian for the king of Telmar. "Begging your pardon, but I can't allow you all to just-"

"Whatever you've done to help her will be made good from the royal treasury, DLF."

"DLF?" Caspian looked to Lucy-she understood her brother's weird phrases better than he did.

"Dear Little Friend," she translated, still looking over at Susan sadly. "He's been calling lots of dwarfs that lately." She tried not to think about how it was Edmund who'd come up with the term in the first place and shocked them all with it until they'd very nearly forgotten what it meant and began to use it commonly; she missed him.

"I don't want your monies, high king," said Trumpkin, his deep, gruff voice almost gentle.

"Then let her come with us out of charity," said Peter softly. "Because I can't live without her."

Everyone was a little surprised by the tremor in the king of Narnia's voice as he said this (except maybe Tumnus) but they didn't call him on it because he sounded so distressed.

"Wait," said Lucy. "Maybe the DLF can come with us-maybe he knows the way out of the forest."

"Lost, are you?" Trumpkin stroked his red beard. "Well, I'll leave a note with the others and see if I can show you on your way."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" cried Lucy joyfully.

"But it's more than that," Tumnus felt he ought to warn the dwarf. "The White Witch of Charn…well, at the moment, I don't think she'll allow us to get out until she gets what she wants…so you'd be putting yourself in danger, you see."

"I'm not afraid," Trumpkin said.

"We have to rescue Edmund, too," Lucy added, her joy lessening as fear gripped her heart.

"If we can," Caspian sighed, not sounding as if he thought there was much chance of that.

"Well, we'll have to get it all sorted as we go along." Peter looked down at the hammock again, wondering how they were going to carry it.

There was much debate about this, but finally it was agreed that Peter and Lucy had better keep to the front of the party with Trumpkin so as to better hear whatever directions he could give them, while Ramandu's daughter, Caspian, and Tumnus all carried the hammock, walking close behind.

It was then that the lost royal travelers had a stroke of pure, untainted luck. Tumnus's right goat-hoof tripped over a loose stone, roughly jolting the hammock. This caused the apple-bite to fly out of Susan's throat. She coughed, gasped, sat up in the now unevenly carried hammock as they set it down, and looked about, confused.

"Susan!" Peter left Trumpkin and ran back to her, holding onto one of her hands.

For a moment, everything was a terrible blur and, through the medallion, she was loosely sensing Edmund's fading memory so that she blinked at Caspian uncomprehendingly and said, "Who are you?"

"I'm King Caspian," he reminded her.

It all began to come back, she remembered everyone and everything, eating the apple, running away, and of course, Peter, who she looked very hard at, remembering now that she had been angry with him.

"Where am I?" she demanded next.

"You're with me," Peter told her.

Caspian made a gagging noise.

"I think it's romantic," Ramandu's daughter whispered to him sharply.

"So do I," he lied quickly. "I was only jesting."

"Susan, I'm so sorry," the high king blurted out. "You were right, I should have told you about being betrothed or else never let you think…and I'm sorry I shouted at you. The truth is simply this, I love you."

"Do I have to say anything right now?" she asked softly.

"No, of course not."

She blinked at him, standing up and letting go of his hand. "Good. Let's see if we can get out of the forest now."

Peter watched her wander off to talk about something with Trumpkin and wondered if she was still angry with him, or else avoiding Tumnus, or simply didn't feel the same way. He couldn't be sure, it was all getting far too complicated.


	15. The Star Army

They spent the rest of the day wandering. Trumpkin seemed pretty sure of the direction, so they weren't particularly worried about getting 'lost' again per-say, but they all-especially Tumnus-had the feeling that the White Witch would not let them (or Edmund of Charn) get off so easily.

Peter and Susan didn't have much of a chance to speak. This was probably for the best at the time as they were both awkward with each other, uncertain of what to say now that so much was out in the open while still hidden; they weren't even sure how to feel.

The medallion's fate remained untouched for the time being. Tumnus could not bring himself to ask Susan for it, much less take it from her. Besides, everybody seemed more concerned with finding a path out than with the matters involving Charn at the time. That is, except for Lucy; she wanted to save Edmund and was rather disappointed that none of them agreed with her plan: to look for Charn once Trumpkin had shown them the path out of the forest. In her mind, she thought they might cross the moving borders somehow, steal Edmund away with them back into Narnia, get out of the forest, and then plan their next move. In truth, it would have been a lovely notion in theory, but no one believed it possible in the least.

"Aslan would help us," Lucy interjected, very firmly, once.

Susan-and Trumpkin-thought this was nonsense and very nearly said so, too; but all the others hastened to assure Lucy that this was not a matter of lack of faith, rather, it was simply a matter of survival until a proper opportunity to demonstrate such faith presented itself.

As badly as they all wanted to get out of the forest, they couldn't walk for ever. Night fell and they had no choice but to lie down and try to get some sleep. Peter found he was restless and slept on and off, waking up to find the others all still dozing. He made a sort of routine of counting them all, making sure they were all there, all safe and sound, still resting, each time he woke up. Then he would promptly fall back asleep.

The last time, just before the first rays of dawn sliced through the trees, a strange figure, sitting a little ways off from their closely-packed slumbering group distracted him. He forgot to count, but somehow he felt quite sure that no one was missing anyway.

The figure was a dark-headed girl sitting with her back to him and the others.

"Hullo?" Peter whispered, standing up and walking over to her.

She turned her body round half way and he could vaguely make out her slender profile, only the light was rum and though she looked very, very familiar, he couldn't place her.

"Peter?" she said as he came closer still.

"Yes," he replied. "Who are you?"

"Peter," she said softly; he came and sat beside her now, taking in her face properly. "It's me, Susan Pevensie."

The light increased a little and the high king squinted in it. "Oh, it is you! But, Susan, why aren't you sleeping with the others? Did you go somewhere? What happened? Are you all right?" He noticed that she wasn't dressed in the same hunting garments she'd been wearing since they'd all gotten lost together. Instead, she was dressed in scarlet gown with a brown leather vest wrapped around the bodice; and there were soft, coppery sort of orange-gold threads sewn into the sleeves.

"You were right, you know." Susan's voice was slightly wistful as she shook her head and looked down at her feet (which were bare).

"Of course I was," Peter said, a bit too quickly (he was, however, half-joking). His forehead crinkled and he added, "About what?"

"About Aslan," said Susan, sighing to herself. "You and Lucy were right, he is real. He isn't a child's fairytale after all…of course now I know none of this could have ever been a dream…though part of me still wishes it could be, part of me that's afraid."

"You've met Him-Aslan, I mean-then?"

"Yes." She blinked back a few tears.

"Why didn't we hear him come?"

"I don't know." She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess he didn't want you to. Maybe he just wanted to talk to me. Otherwise, I know Lucy would have rushed to him with her arms open."

"That's true," said Peter.

"And I keep wanting to tell myself I imagined him," Susan laughed, a little bitterly. "But I can't. I can't even convince myself that it wasn't him that I saw kiss the white stag. It _was_ the Lion, and I know it-I knew it then, too. Or I could have if I'd let myself." She shifted one leg and glanced into her lap. "And of course I can't deny I just spoke with him-there are the clothes the Lion gave me, for one. I'm still wearing them."

"Oh, so that's where you got those," Peter realized, smiling shyly. "They look good on you."

"Thanks." She half-smiled back.

"So, um, what did Aslan say?"

"A lot of things," Susan explained, straining to remember it all. "There was something, something about me and Edmund's medallion…fighting, or else stopping, Charn somehow…I didn't really understand that bit. I asked him to explain, but he said I'd figure it out. He seemed rather put-off a little earlier in the conversation when I asked him what would have happened if I had never come-if I'd never bought the rings from Mr. Ketterley in the first place-and I was a little afraid of him. Not afraid of him eating me, just afraid of _him_. So I didn't press him. I don't think he wants us to leave the forest yet, though, Peter, I think there's something he wants us to do here first."

"I thought you wanted to get out more than anything."

"I do," Susan said, sighing again; "you can't imagine how badly, but I have to do this-whatever this is. I've got to, I see it now." Thinking she might begin to cry again, she buried her face in her hands.

"Susan," said Peter, tenderly, reaching out and gently lifting her hands away from her face, holding them in his own.

"Peter, don't." Susan pulled her hands out of his grasp and shook her head, almost violently. "Please don't."

"Don't what?"

"I know you're only trying to comfort me," she said, fighting back the sudden urge she felt to stroke his cheek and to put her arms around him and hold him, "but don't do this, all right? Please?"

"Susan, I-"

"I love you, too," she admitted. "I just can't do this; I can't be with you. I can't act like everything's right between us, knowing you're betrothed to someone else."

"I'm not going to marry her," Peter said adamantly, resting one hand lightly on Susan's left arm. "I can't marry her. I'll figure something out, I promise."

"Talk to me again when you do, all right?" With that she shrugged off his touch, stood up, and started walking towards the others.

"You don't think I can do it, do you?" Peter's brow went downwards as he was coming up behind her. "You don't think I can back out."

Susan bit her lower lip, willing it not to tremble. "No, Peter, I don't."

"Why not?" he asked. "For pity's sake, tell me why not."

"Because," she whispered, "I know you. Duty means so much to you-it's your everything. There's no way you're going to jilt her and I know you mean every word you say to me here and now, but it's worthless knowing I'm going to lose you when this is over, when we leave the forest and regular life has a hold on you again. You'll see it, too, when you come back to your senses, you'll thank me for this then."

"Susan, listen to me." Peter stepped in front of her and gripped both of her arms to make sure he had her attention. "Aside from Lucy, who you know I would go to the world's end for if I thought it would do her any good, there is only one person who has ever, and I mean _ever_ , meant more to me than duty to my country and alliances."

"Peter, stop." She closed her eyes, inhaled, then opened the again. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do," he insisted, his tone somewhere between a disbelieving laugh and a gasp. "That person is you, Susan. If I had to, I'd give up my throne, my place as high king, for you."

"I would hate you if you did that," she told him, scowling.

"Why?"

"Because you're the rightful king, Narnia needs you, you can't just brush that-and everything else-aside for no other reason than the fact that you think you've fallen in love with me."

"Oh, Susan," he moaned. "Please listen to me, I don't only _think_ …"

"If you were an ordinary boy-man-things would be different," she said, stubbornly clinging to what she believed was 'the right thing to do'. "Then I'd say there was no need for you to try to be a hero, but you're not a free subject. You're not, and you know it."

"I-" he began.

She pulled away from him. "The others will be waking presently, I don't want to have this conversation in front of them, all right?"

"All right," the high king gave in.

Not a single word passed between them all the rest of that day, but if looks are worth anything, there were enough of those exchanged by the hour, minute, and second to equal a lifetime's worth of conversation.

Evening fell and Caspian anxiously asked Trumpkin if it was normal for a journey, when one knew which way one was going, out of the forest to take so long. The dwarf assured him it was, that they'd been very, very deep in the densest of the many woodland paths of the forest. As far as time went, he pointed out, they really hadn't any reason to panic yet-nothing even _close_ to a reason.

Lucy thought Edmund being in Charn was a reason, but she didn't speak up. Susan had a blister on her heel and was looking over at Peter, not paying much attention to what the dwarf and the king of Telmar were saying in the first place. Ramandu's daughter heard, but she was feeling too on-edge to think of anything to say at the moment.

Above them, in the purple streak of horizon slowly becoming engulfed in black, something sparkled. Then something at its right sparkled as well, glowing brightly. Something at its left, also. There were four of them. No, seven. No, ten. No, perhaps about sixteen or twenty. No, more than that. Blue and white light with pale flashes of yellow-gold radiated from where the things seemed to be falling-or else _flying_ -down to.

Ramandu's daughter grimaced and took a step closer to Caspian.

"What are they?" asked Caspian, his voice low, nearly a whisper but not quite.

"Stars," Ramandu's daughter answered; "they're coming for me."

"For you?" Peter blinked at her.

"For us," she amended. "All of us."

"Us?" gasped Tumnus, feeling a shiver run through his whole body, leaving his goat-legs all pins-and-needles.

"But _why_?" Lucy asked, feeling frightened. "What do they want?"

"They think we're cursed," Ramandu's daughter told them gravely. Most of the stars, with the exception of possibly her father and other close relatives, all believed she was cursed for meddling with the affairs of Charn. Likely, they were not keen on anyone who was helping her-anyone, royalty or not, who had undone their doing.

"Aren't we?" Caspian said, his tone scornful. Something had been going on ever since he'd arrived in Narnia; and it wasn't just the forest or Charn, either. It was something deeper than that, it had to be. Probably, he thought, it was to do with Edmund and the medallion. Susan could be part of it, too, he supposed, but somehow she was easier to trust than the adopted son of an evil witch was.

"Arrow on the bowstring," Peter told Susan shortly in a deep, in-charge sort of voice.

Susan still had the bow and arrows Ramandu's daughter had lent her, and as this was not a time to argue, she quickly did as the high king ordered, standing just behind him, Caspian, and Tumnus. Lucy and Ramandu's daughter, holding one of Caspian's hunting-knives in her right hand, stood behind her; Trumpkin was at her side.

Within moments, dozens of beautiful, shimmering persons all dressed in elegant blue robe-like garments surrounded them.

Susan felt a trickle of sweat roll from her forehead to her neck and willed her fingers not to cramp up on her and loosen their hold on the bowstring.

Peter had his sword out and held its hilt tightly, waving it warningly at the stars. He hoped he looked confident, because he didn't entirely feel it. "Stars, I am Peter, High King of Narnia, you break faith with all of my subjects and any loyalty you have to the crown of this country, or to Aslan who first established the rule of my bloodline, if you harm us."

"Tis not your blood," said a voice that was far less harsh and war-like than they had been expecting. The speaking star had the form of a slender, middle-aged man with silvery hair. "I know who you are, Peter, and I know who you think you are but are not. Regardless, you and I have some matters to discuss. I am the head general of the star-armies, and it was by my command that the daughter of Ramandu was imprisoned in the tower your men unlawfully delivered her from."

"Villain!" blurted Caspian, without thinking, scowling at the general.

"Peace, Caspian," Peter said hastily over his shoulder, giving the king of Telmar a firm, 'be quiet at once' look.

"Actually," said Susan, clinging to her bowstring, feeling strangely impelled, as if from the medallion, to say something, "it was Edmund of Charn who released her-he's forgotten some things, but he does still remember letting her go."

"How do you know that?" whispered Lucy. Susan hadn't been in the tower with the men; Edmund had to be communicating with her somehow in order for her to know what she was saying.

"He released me in thanks for my delivering him," Ramandu's daughter said, though this was not strictly true, considering that Edmund knew nothing of her role in his own escape. "These noble persons have done nothing dishonourable so as to gain your enmity."

"Nor has Ramandu's daughter," Caspian broke in, ignoring Peter's turned-down brow, warning him to remain silent. "I…I don't think, I mean, I don't trust Edmund of Charn any more than you do, but maybe he really _was_ running away from the witch, away from doing her bidding somehow."

"Yes," said Susan, her cheeks flushing with fear. "It's true; he's more a friend than otherwise."

"Don't over-state it," muttered Caspian.

"Oh, shut up," hissed Peter-to Caspian.

"Clearly the witch wants something from him," Susan went on. "Aslan himself almost said so, I think."

"Help us," said Peter, "and we can stop whatever evil Charn means to bring against Narnia. We can all do it together."

The general said something under his breath to the others and they began to lower their glittering weapons half-way.

Susan held her bow a little lower, but still kept a tight grip on it all the same-just in case.

"We help you," said the general very slowly, as if trying to be one hundred percent sure before he agreed to anything, "and Queen Jadis of Charn suffers?"

"Yes," said Peter, sighing heavily. "But if you stop us, she might get away with whatever she is plotting."

"And Tumnus will be turned to stone!" Lucy added sorrowfully. "He only has a week, and we don't know what to do about it! We have to stop her."

"Don't worry," Susan whispered to little Lucy reassuringly, forcing a confident smile. "We will, I promise." She only hoped Aslan would help her because if not they were sunk; Susan doubted she could do it on her own, and she wished she could borrow a bit of Lucy's faith.

"But, if you do not mind our asking," said Caspian, now that a battle did not seem imminent, "what did you mean when you said Peter is not who he thinks he is?"

"Well," said the general, snapping his fingers at his star-warriors (of which there were both men-stars and women-stars), "that's a bit of a long story and it might give you-I mean, you humans-a bit of a shock. We'd best set up a fire and prepare something resembling an evening meal first. But, in essence, Peter, the young man you believe to be the son of a Narnian king and queen is really a star's son; Ramandu's daughter-you may have noticed the resemblance-is his twin sister."


	16. Puzzle Pieces

"It was like this," said the star general, whose name turned out to be Coriakin, tucking his bare feet under himself and edging a little closer to the warm campfire as he prepared to tell Peter the truth about his ancestry, "your father Ramandu had two wives."

"Lucky star," Caspian joked, instantly wishing he could take it back when he saw that Ramandu's daughter did not appear to find this at all amusing, deliberately getting up and sitting on the opposite side of her twin brother, a frown etched between her two golden eyebrows. "I'm kidding," he insisted, but no one was listening to him, and as he, too, was actually starting to feel a little curious about how a star's son had become the high king of Narnia, he didn't press the issue, stopped commenting, and listened as quietly as everybody else.

"One of these was a full-blooded star like himself," Coriakin went on, "a lady I would personally call handsome rather than beautiful, but a fine wife all the same. The other was a human woman who was believed to have some star-blood in her veins, though no one knew that for certain. She was a Narnian and from a good, noble family. Back in those days, which were not so long ago, I'm a bit ashamed to admit, we stars still allowed our men to take more than one wife-as they often do in some of the Calormene households large enough to have harems. Well, we take more of the stand point of Narnians and Archenlanders these days, as the whole polygamy issue almost caused us a civil war-but that's another story, and not one you humans really need to know, so I digress. Where was I?"

"A Narnian woman who may have had star's blood in her…" Ramandu's daughter reminded him.

"Right, right, thank you," he went on. "So, it happened like this, Ramandu fell in love with the maiden and took her as a second wife. His first wife was barren and when the woman bore Ramandu two beautiful babies-a boy and a girl all at once-well, you understand, she was jealous. Meanwhile there were some problems in Narnia, the White Witch of Charn was giving them trouble, sucking innocent, hapless persons into the borders of her moving country. The king was unmarried, and when Ramandu found that his first wife tried to poison his second-another long story, don't ask, please, or I'll never get this one finished-he instantly feared for her and his children, so he declared that he would divorce the human maiden and give her in re-marriage to King Frank of Narnia instead. This was all done for her protection, and she took her son with her."

"Why not her daughter, too?" Lucy piped in curiously, cocking her head over at Coriakin who she was liking rather a lot.

"I'm not sure," he admitted, shaking his head the same way you would over a puzzling question on a history test. "Something went astray, and at any rate the first wife took pity on the daughter and didn't despise her as she had her mother and brother. She must not have seen her as a threat, I couldn't say why else she would treat her with respect unless Ramandu threatened her into it. But, no, he doesn't strike me as the sort. Anyway, if you're wondering, your mother never married the king of Narnia, the man you call father, after all, Peter."

Peter blinked at him. "Then how did I…"

"King Frank ended up marrying the maiden's half-sister, a noblewoman named Helen. She was a loving aunt from the first, I assure you, adored you at once and cared for you in babyhood as if you were her own son."

The next part of the story, Peter pretty much knew. He knew that Queen Helen left Narnia and went to live in Archenland to help care for a sickly great aunt or something who was a courtier there while he himself was still an infant; and that while King Frank went to visit her from time to time, he almost never took his 'son' along. The one time he had, she had been away from the court sailing with some servants to the Seven Isles in search of some sort of herb that could help the aunt get better (whether or not she found it, he never heard).

There had been moments growing up when Peter thought it most unfair that he never got to see his mother, and that when she died all he had of her was basically her wardrobe and a few crown jewels. No letters of goodbye, or sentiments. He knew she loved him, though, and was sometimes cross with Frank for not taking him to see her. But now it appeared that she was not his mother, after all, and so perhaps the whole scene was a little different. He, King Peter, was a borderline charity-child. A nephew. Not a son.

"What happened to my mother?" the young man who had thought he was a high king wanted to know.

"She died," sighed Coriakin wearily. "Carriage accident, very tragic. Some signs of a tremor, never explained."

"Poison? Because of the tremor, I mean." Ramandu's daughter was wary now of the woman she'd trusted. She'd known her father's wife was not her mother, but she had never known that she had once tried to kill her, either. Now she distrusted the lady she'd once admired, even loved, maybe a little bit.

"No proof either way," he answered, "but I do not believe so. And if there was anyone poisoned it would have had to be the carriage driver, not your mother."

"I see." Ramandu's daughter blinked away a round of forming tears and stared into the campfire, willing it to dry them up.

"Later," said Coriakin the general, "Frank and Helen had a son of their own." (This was doubtless due to one of Frank's longer visits to Archenland, leaving Peter in the care of Roonwit and Tumnus back at Cair Paravel).

"But he was a still-born," Peter interjected, feeling that he knew this part of the story correctly, at least. But, as it turned out, he did not.

"Your brother," corrected Coriakin, not unkindly, though there was a slight edge in his voice at being interrupted again, "-or, cousin, rather-was _not_ a still-born and may well be alive somewhere this very day."

"That's impossible," Peter insisted. "Father-King Frank, I mean-told me…that the baby died…if he hadn't, he wouldn't have been much older than Lucy, maybe a year or two…young enough to be a playfellow of hers."

Coriakin gave him a hum of sympathy and said, "Ah, but something went amiss you see…something to do with changelings and cradle-robbing; the whole story, I'm afraid, I don't know. Where the boy is, I couldn't tell you. But he was a living, breathing baby, is the rightful heir to Narnia's throne, and well, I can only hope the poor prince-well, King, I suppose since Frank is dead-isn't living in dire conditions since no one knows who he is. Perhaps Aslan knows."

"Do you think he would tell us," Peter asked sort of quietly, adjusting to the stinging news that he was not technically the high king of Narnia after all, trying to act like it wasn't a borderline slap across the face, "if we asked him?"

The star general shrugged his shoulders.

Susan, during this, felt very uncomfortable, for when Peter said that his brother (cousin) would have been young enough to be Lucy's playfellow, something inside of her snapped and she thought instantly of Edmund. Of course, that was impossible. But, then, Edmund himself knew he had been stolen away but not where from. Supposing Ed was more than simply true Narnian stock, supposing he was the real heir to the throne-the very throne that was currently Peter's? Her head spun and she concentrated, thinking she might hear his thoughts through the medallion. But she felt that she was losing him. He was remembering less, and if he was trying to communicate, if he sensed any of this story, she couldn't tell. All this made her more anxious than ever. She wished whatever it was she had to do was over and done with; her stomach tightened into several knots.

"Oh, Peter!" Lucy threw her arms round her brother (for that is what he was-and would always be-to her no matter what) when Coriakin's story seemed to have reached its end.

Caspian muttered something along the lines of, "Hard luck" to Peter, and, to his credit, he did look rather sympathetic-save a bit distracted, trying to see Ramandu's daughter's facial expression in order to discern _her_ feelings on the matter.

All things considered, over-whelmed as he was, Peter took this all with the perfect grace he had mastered after nearly a lifetime of believing he was Narnia's only heir-only hope, even. It had to be quite a shock and a blow for him, but outwardly he handled it very well. It is, after all, one thing to more or less offer to give up your rightful place on the throne if need-be for the love of your life; it is quite another to be told it was never your right to begin with.

When everyone dropped off to sleep round the remaining embers of the fire, even the stars' lights going out for at least a couple of hours so that they could re-generate for the next day, Peter walked away from the slumbering group and sat on a boulder, looking up at the sky.

Craning his neck, he could still see plenty of stars up there twinkling distantly; ones that evidently hadn't been part of the army or else had some other reason for not coming. It was strange to think that he was more or less one of them; at least half, if not a little more.

This did, in a way, clear up nearly everything when he thought it over. The glowing, the understanding-and bearing a striking resemblance to-Ramandu's daughter, supposedly blasting a mermaid's hand with light…this wasn't as bizarre now that he knew where he had really come from. He wondered what Ramandu was like. His sister seemed to like their father well enough and that was some indication, sure, but still he wondered. He wondered, also, how she was taking it. Ramandu's daughter had been very quiet after the star general's story came to an end, and he hoped she didn't mind that she was his twin.

"Peter?" said a girl's voice behind him.

Startled, he jumped a little, and then turned to face her. Although he assumed for some reason that it would be Ramandu's daughter, wanting to talk about what they'd just found out, perhaps, it wasn't. It was Susan Pevensie.

"Oh, it's you."

"Don't sound so thrilled," said Susan in a forced-sounding playful voice, as though she was half-trying to cheer him up but wasn't sure how to go about it or even if she ought to.

"Isn't it ironic," he mumbled, "that you didn't want to be together because you thought I was a high king, and now we find out I never was one to begin with?"

"I'm sorry, Peter." She sat down beside him on the boulder as he scooted over to make room for her. "But it's more than blood that makes a king. I think you're still a king no matter where you came from." Tossing her head a little self-righteously, she added, "For the record, it wasn't because you were a king that I didn't want to be with you, it was because you're betrothed."

"I _was_ betrothed," Peter said.

"How do you mean?"

"I promised as ruler of Narnia, believing I was of that bloodline, that I would marry someone." He smiled at her, starting to see the bright side of this whole mess. "If I'm not really king, how am I betrothed?"

Susan had never thought of that; you could tell from the baffled, stunned look on her face that the thought had never occurred to her before Peter brought it up. She squinted at him for a moment, wondering if he was serious, mocking, or else confusing her by twisting words and titles.

"Think about it," he went on, his face looking a little brighter just then. "If I'm not really king, why then, I'm a free man-or star, or half-star…or…whatever, dash it!"

"Pish." Susan rolled her eyes. "Nonsense."

"What did you say?"

"I said it was pish and nonsense."

" _How_ exactly?"

"Because…" her head was spinning, there was too much information to take in all at once. "Just…because…all right?"

"No," said Peter, reaching for her hand. "It's not 'all right'!"

"Does this really mean you aren't betrothed or are you just saying that?" Susan wanted to know.

"I would never 'just say that', Susan," Peter told her tenderly, stroking one of her cheeks with his free hand. "Never."

"Oh, but…" she started, feeling very much as if she should still be pulling away from him though unable to rationalize it all since everything was becoming so fuzzy regarding that. This frustrated her, but it was the sort of frustration she would have chosen for herself if she'd had to have a form of it within her at that moment.

He kissed her for the second time, much more lingeringly and intensely than the first, letting his arms slip around her, holding her as closely as he thought was safe to risk.

Susan still thought about pulling away, but at first she did nothing about those notions; she let him kiss her lips repeatedly, and she kissed him back.

It was not until he'd moved away from her lips and was kissing the cheek he'd been caressing, that something inside of her brain _dinged_ and she forced herself to lightly push him away.

"Wait," she said, her tone a little sharp while her voice remained low and soft. "Just because you weren't born into the family you thought you were doesn't mean you're allowed to give up the kingship just like that."

"Well, it's not 'just like that'…" Peter murmured, a little awkwardly, his tone slightly dazed, puzzled by her sudden revelation. "It'll be hard, I expect, but what else-"

"What if Aslan still wants you to be king?" Susan demanded, struggling against the hot tears that were filling up her eyes, threatening to brim over them. "You don't know that the real heir is any good at ruling; he's young…you yourself said he'd be only a little older than Lucy…what if Aslan doesn't want him on the throne?"

"I…" his tone wavered, his voice becoming shaky. "I don't know, Su."

"I do," Susan told him, swallowing hard and scooting as far away from Peter as the boulder would allow. "You would still be a high king."

"I suppose…" his forehead crinkled.

"And you would still be betrothed."

He blinked, trying to register this. "Wait…what? No! Susan, I told you, I'm not going to marry her."

"And I told you that I think you are," she said hollowly.

"Well, you think wrong," he retorted.

"I'm sorry, Peter," she said, standing up. "Really, I am."

Meanwhile, in Charn, Edmund sat on a little stool that was probably made of ice yet looked-and felt-more like glass. There was a little one-person table-stand directly in front of his stool, made of the same material, and laid-out on it were four square pieces of the most extraordinary metal that existed in all of that moving country.

This metal was made of the very hardest kinds of ice mixed with white-gold and silver and diamond. It was clear in some lights and dark-murky-in others.

Edmund was staring very intently at these pieces because Mother Jadis had told him that on the day he was able to arrange them so that they formed the word, 'Eternity', he would be free. Free of what? He wasn't sure; he couldn't quite recall…only that he knew he wanted freedom from it.

There was another place he'd been, and that was where he wanted to go more than anything else. He couldn't remember what it was called. "It started with an N, I think," he said in his head (for he still hadn't any voice as the medallion had never been returned) once or twice. "I'm sure it did. Or, no, maybe it was a C…or an S…could be an L…but I think, I think, it was N. Only that might just stand for north or something, and the real name of the place could start with a different letter entirely."

There were also people there, kind people, whom he cared for and wanted to see again. Their names he'd forgotten altogether, except for two. They were girls, he remembered, one older and one younger; and their names were Susan and Lucy.

If he really and truly concentrated, he usually remembered that Susan was the older girl, and she had done something to defend him once, and that Lucy was the lost playmate he missed most of all-the little girl he still dreamed about from time to time. But he'd had very poor concentration as of late, not at all helped by the fact that most of it was strained over the 'eternity' puzzle that seemed to have no solution, numb as his fingers were always going from struggling with it. So, instead, in his muddled mind, the two girls got a mite jumbled up. Susan was the younger and Lucy the elder. No, wait that wasn't right, Lusan was…wait, which was one was Lusan again? No, it wasn't Lusan at all, it was Sucy! Or, no, wait…oh, it didn't _matter_!

He must get back to the puzzle at once. He wanted to be free.


	17. Jadis or Susan This Time

"All right," said Susan in a 'taking-charge' sort of voice. "I've been thinking about what we should do."

Everybody's attention turned to her, only Peter wouldn't meet her eyes in spite of the fact that he was clearly listening. She wondered if he was still sore over what had happened last night.

It wasn't her fault, she'd told herself, she was only trying to do the right thing, even if it meant rejecting him, even if it meant giving him up; she wished he'd give her some credit for her efforts. After all, he may not have liked it, but it wasn't as if she herself was enjoying breaking his heart as well as her own.

All her life, Susan had had a sense of pride, a strong, strong sense that worked, at times, rather like a compass for her, that could not easily be over-turned; and that pride was still telling her that it was wrong, dead wrong, to be with someone who was betrothed. She honestly believed that he-her king, the man she loved-was going to marry the duke's daughter. That was that, she had settled in her mind; no hard feelings, none, really. But apparently it was not so simple as that.

With a heavy sigh, Susan forced herself to stop thinking about Peter and went on with her plan for carrying out whatever it was Aslan wanted. If she was to destroy or fight against Charn, the sooner she got it over with the better.

Maybe if they were really lucky (though it mightn't actually be luck at all, it might be the Lion) and stuck together and caught the witch off-guard somehow, they might get it all done before supper and bedtime (it was amazing how much of a stickler for those things Susan could be, given their current borderline-lost-nomad situation). And then Aslan or Trumpkin or someone else who knew the way (perhaps the stars; Coriakin seemed like a knowing sort of fellow) would show them back to Cair Paravel.

In the meantime, she also thought it would be a fine idea to try and rescue Edmund along the way; not only would it please Lucy, but she felt as if she simply _had_ to, for her own sake of humanity and kindness, not able to bear the thought of them all going free and him-the poor boy who might, for all they knew, have been the real heir to the throne of Narnia-suffering alone and lost in what she hoped by that point would be naught but ruins of the cold, barren moving country.

"What we need," Susan went on, hoping she sounded strong and not like she was going to throw-up, which was how she was feeling, "is first to find Charn's borders."

"You know they don't keep in the same place," said Peter, finally looking at her.

"I know," said Susan. "What I meant was to find where they currently are."

"Um, with all due respect," Caspian cut in, putting up one hand in protest, "we should be looking to get _away_ from Charn's borders if anything."

"No," said Ramandu's daughter. "She's right."

"She is?" Caspian's forehead crinkled.

"How is she-we, or…whoever-supposed to fight against Charn and Jadis if we're no where near either of them?"

"But that's crazy!" exclaimed Caspian, aghast. "No one has ever taken the White Witch's country."

"There's always a first time," Peter said, nodding kindly at Susan who-somewhat in vain-willed her stomach not to do a summersault and her cheeks not to blush.

"Caspian, dear," piped Lucy, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You know we have to do this sooner or later."

He shuddered but did not nudge her away. "Yes, little princess, but this is sooner."

"Well, there isn't any need to procrastinate." Susan's eyes widened in urgency. "I shouldn't like to get on the wrong side of that Lion."

"Here, here!" Coriakin voiced his approval; he was very fond of Aslan, really, but he was also a little afraid of him-as he well ought to have been.

Susan half-smiled at him appreciatively and then went on, "If we can find where the borders are right now, then we can…" Can what? Can go in? But that was a mad thing to do. The second the White Witch knew they were in her country, surely she'd find some horrible way to control them! Yet, could they really fight from the outside of the borders?

Peter understood. "Susan, what about the medallion?"

"Edmund's medallion?" she replied shakily, as if there could have possibly been another medallion he'd been referring to.

"Yes," he said patiently. "If it's her emblem, perhaps it contains some of her power…and maybe, just maybe, we can use it to defeat her."

"But what about Edmund?" Lucy gasped. "What if it hurts him somehow?"

"Lucy's right," Susan sighed, "we must do something for Edmund."

"If we can," Peter mulled despairingly.

"What I don't understand," Coriakin put in, "is why, if it's so important, the witch would have ever let this Edmund get his hands on it in the first place."

"He might have stolen it," Peter offered.

"I bet that's it." Caspian's voice was scornful; he felt much sorrier for Edmund than his tone suggested, but he still didn't trust him.

"I think it's something to do with his being her adopted son," Susan told them. "She has some reason to want him to have it."

"To control him…or hold him in her power?" guessed Ramandu's daughter, very uncertainly.

"But how…" Caspian began, feeling a slight headache coming on.

"Oh!" gasped Susan, taking a step back, her expression both enlightened and horror-stricken. "You don't think…what if he…Peter, if he…"

"What are you talking about, Susan?" His voice was strained and a little cross, but only because she was breathing so heavily from shock that he was worried she might pass out.

"Peter," she said, "it's been on my mind since the star general told us. About your lost brother or cousin, whichever we want to call him."

"What about him?"

"Don't you see? I've been thinking it might be Edmund; he was stolen away at a young age, he doesn't remember his real parents, he told him so himself."

"That's impossible!" Caspian insisted.

"Is it?" Ramandu's daughter looked at him; she wasn't so sure as he was.

"And what if she gave him the medallion," Susan went on excitedly, "to make sure she-or else Charn-would always have a hold on him?"

"Susan, think about it," said Caspian, shaking his head. "That makes no sense whatsoever. If Jadis kidnapped him because he was the prince-or king-heir-of Narnia, then she wouldn't just lock him up for ever. What good would it do her? It isn't as if she's left Narnia leaderless; they've got Peter, after all."

"Not for ever," Susan thought aloud; "Ed's not even a dozen years old, I shouldn't think. If he is, it's just barely."

"Hang it all!" exclaimed Peter, stricken. "What if it's true? What if she…she's keeping him…keeping him to take over Narnia? Using their true heir."

"Edmund would never fight against us," Lucy said firmly. "Never."

"Not knowingly," Tumnus agreed darkly, speaking up for the first time since that conversation had been started. "If he doesn't remember us…the witch is very persuasive, your highness."

"Doesn't remember…" -Susan felt her knees wanting to buckle under her, making her feel very weak- "…oh, no…if I'm right, and we're losing him-he's losing his memory of us…"

"We don't have much time," Tumnus groaned. "Once his thoughts are cleared, she'll do her best to make him as cold as ice, so he'll never question her again-I see it now."

Lucy started to weep bitterly.

"How are we to find the borders?" Susan said, swallowing hard and collecting her swimming thoughts, determined to be brave. Or, if she couldn't be, to be braver than she felt, at least.

"We're cursed, it will probably find _us_ ," Caspian pointed out grimly.

"We don't have _time_." Peter gave him a rather hard look. "You know we don't. Every second may count."

"Can the stars find it?" Lucy wondered aloud.

Coriakin thought he just might be able to, but he warned them it would be hard going. Yet, they already knew-and felt-that it would be, and this did not make them any more discouraged than they currently were.

"Let us find a tree stump," ordered the star general.

Lucy dashed a little ahead of the others and Peter grimaced and called her name constantly to be sure she was still in ear-shot when he couldn't directly see her.

"Here's a good one!" she called out.

And indeed it was. It was a large stump probably from a great oak or cedar tree; its wood was as strong and good as the very nicest sort of table and its surface was not quite so rough as you might expect it to be.

"Ah, very good, Lucy." Coriakin spread out what looked like a great sheet of cloth-paper (the kind they use to make maps) and swiveled his hand over it so that it glowed the way Peter's hand had when he'd saved Susan from the mermaids.

Of course everyone peered down anxiously to see what it would show them, but, unfortunately, they couldn't all see it. The stars seemed to, judging by their short breaths and nervous whistles, and so could Peter and Ramandu's daughter-who had the very best view as well. Everybody else, however, saw nothing but light or else blackness on Coriakin's map. Likely, Caspian was the most disappointed, since he was always the sort of man who was interested in traveling and navigation, but later on Ramandu's daughter described it to him in such great detail that he felt almost as if he really had seen it and was satisfied.

"Here," said Coriakin putting his long, bright, chalk-coloured fingers down on one place on the map, "is, I believe, where Charn was this morning."

"And where is it headed now?" asked Ramandu's daughter, her tone somewhere between awed and partly huffy.

"Don't rush me, my dear, don't rush me," Coriakin answered hurriedly, staring down with all the intensity he could possibly muster.

"What's that?" Peter asked, pointing to where he saw a shimmering silver line that seemed to be moving and blinking across the paper.

"Dear sweet Aslan," muttered Coriakin, his eyes widening as he reached up and rubbed his forehead. "That sneaky witch!"

"What is it? What is it?" cried several human and star voices all at once.

"The White Witch of Charn is making her country's borders take over the largest river in the forest."

"Mercy!" whistled Caspian. "But what does she want with it?"

Something struck at Susan's heart through the medallion and she thought she knew the answer. "She's going to use it to break out of Charn. It's going to be her doorway."

"If she realizes we've figured it out," Coriakin warned them in his most commanding voice, "she will try to move it and strike again after she has finished with us."

"We have to stop her!" Peter cried. "I wish we knew how."

"Would this help?" Susan unfastened the medallion from round her neck and held it out by the chain to show Coriakin.

"Yes!" said the star general. "Keep holding it out, I have an idea." His eyes flickered over to Peter and Ramandu's daughter. "You are both half-blood stars and twins. You, Peter, sit on the throne the witch has her sights on. Child," here he paused and stared right into Ramandu's daughter's eyes, "you've meddled in Charn's affairs by helping Edmund escape. Perhaps, here's hoping, the two of you together, both with your roles in this curse and your true bloodlines, can put an anchor on the borders."

They were both doubtful, but Coriakin insisted they try anyway.

"One of you stand on the left of the medallion, the other on the right." He turned to Susan. "As for you, just keep holding onto the chain."

"Now what?" asked Peter.

"Both of you hold one of your hands open flat about an inch away from the medallion. Then, concentrate as hard as you can and try to blast starlight over the white-gold."

It was quite a sight to see, but Susan always said afterwards that she was glad as anything that they never had to repeat that moment because the looks on both Peter and his twin's face, she thought, were absolutely terrible. She did not mean that they looked wicked or cross, only wholly inhuman and unreachable. This frightened her more so in Peter's case than in that of Ramandu's daughter; and the opposite was probably true for Caspian; both were hoping that the expressions currently etched across the twins faces were not permanent.

Starlight flashed and reflected on and off of the medallion violently. A jolt not unlike an electric current ran up the chain and gave Susan's fingers a shock. It didn't hurt her, exactly, though it did startle her a great deal, causing her to let go of the chain.

The medallion was still flashing as it began to fall, surely destined to hit the forest ground. Coriakin, however, was swift and reached out and caught it. It flashed once more and he blinked in confusion, sensing some change.

"Oh, Coriakin!" exclaimed Susan, her tone both shocked and apologetic at the same time. "Thank heavens you caught it, but, oh, your hair…"

That phrase looks funny in print, of course, but Susan really did have some reason to be a little distraught over this. For, you see, as he had caught it, Coriakin's silver hair had turned white and a long snow-coloured beard had grown on his face, falling passed his chest, almost to his stomach.

Peter shuddered, understandably unnerved.

"Here," said Coriakin, a little heavily, holding out the medallion by the chain for Susan to take back.

She took a step backwards and shook her head. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"It's all right," he assured her. "The anchor was still lowering itself on the borders of Charn when I took it, the medallion seems to be back to normal now, and I've something of an idea that Aslan or Edmund-or both, or somebody involved-wanted you to look after it."

She still hesitated.

"I'm almost positive it's not going to kill you," he said, half-joking, putting a smile on his anxious face that remained smooth and young-looking despite his old-man hair.

"Oh, it's not going to _kill_ her," Peter sneered sarcastically, protective of Susan. "Lovely."

"It's fine now, really."

Susan took it with trembling fingers. There was no jolt, no more flashing, no reason whatsoever, it seemed, to be frightened of it. Or, to be more exact, there was no _new_ reason whatsoever to be frightened of it. A person-boy, girl, man, or woman-who is completely unafraid of carrying around a witch's emblem is probably a fool.

Scared though she was, something inside of Susan's heart swelled, and as she looked at the faces of those she realized meant so much to her-Caspian, Lucy, Tumnus, and yes, without a doubt, Peter, her dear, unattainable Peter-and thought of Edmund trapped in Charn and of Aslan the great Lion's breath on her forehead, bidding her goodbye after their meeting, she felt as though sweet music and wonderful smells were floating all round her, gently nudging her forward. In this world that was not a dream, for her friends and for the Lion, she would do this-for the good of Narnia, for the good of everybody. She, Susan Pevensie of England, would stop Queen Jadis of Charn.

It would be Jadis or Susan this time.


	18. How The Curse was Ended

The river flowed north. For some reason, Susan found this upsetting. Perhaps, though she never could be sure, even after all was said and done, this was for two subconscious reasons: Peter's betrothed living in _North_ -Western Ettinsmoor, and north in general being cold and much more wintry-not unlike Queen Jadis, who she knew she must fight.

Her heart pounded-and with good reason-as she and the others finally came in sight of the lake frozen in its mid-northern flow, little scuffs scattered across the smooth surface.

"Peter." Caspian tapped him on the shoulder.

"What?" he called back to him shortly.

"I hope we win."

"Stop talking," Susan ordered curtly, rolling her eyes. "I can't hear myself think."

"Lucy," hissed Peter under his breath as his foundling sister edged closer to the ice, "don't you dare go any nearer or I'll have you tied to my hip if I have to!"

"But we've got to find the way in," she insisted.

" _You_ don't," he retorted. "Stay with the group."

She scowled at him, but knowing he meant well, did not hold a grudge.

"I'm scared," said Caspian.

"Me too," said Ramandu's daughter earnestly. "Charn's tricky."

"No, I meant scared of Coriakin's new beard." He grinned semi-playfully at the star's daughter.

"Oh, shut up," Susan muttered.

Ramandu's daughter bit her lip to hide the fact that she was secretly fighting a back a tiny smile at Caspian's joke.

"I'm only trying to ease the tension," the king of Telmar protested.

"You're making it _worse_ ," Peter told him roughly.

"She's seen us," Susan announced, almost slipping, grabbing onto Peter's arm to keep from falling. She was sensing through the medallion that things were getting harder and harder; Jadis, she knew, was watching them right now. And she was not pleased, to put it lightly.

"Look!" Peter pointed to a hole forming near the bank's left edge. "I think that's meant to be a doorway."

Lucy took one last look at everybody, silently willing them to forgive her for what she was about to do, and before they could stop her, she made a running jump out of Peter's grasp and went down into the hole. She knew it was Susan who was going to stop Jadis and destroy Charn, but she worried about Edmund being trapped in that dead world when it was over. The others, she decided, had enough to worry about; Edmund was her friend, her playfellow, and she would go and get him.

"Lucy!" screamed Peter, instantly flinging himself down to grab onto her and pull her back up. But, alas, the frozen hole closed up over her, hardening within a split second, and she was gone; either drowned, or else in Charn.

Tumnus thought, though it could have just been an anxiety attack coming over him, that he heard a distant ring of laughter that sounded rather like the witch and her wolves, coming from under the ice.

The next few moments were a struggle of Caspian, Coriakin, Peter, and Tumnus all trying desperately to break the ice over where Lucy had gone under. When they finally managed it, it did not seem quite the same hole. It was no longer a doorway.

"Dear Aslan, no," murmured Peter, his hands nearly purple and his whole body trembling. "Lucy!"

"I have to stop this," Susan said to herself, rushing forward.

How? How could she stop the witch? What if Jadis herself came out of the ice? Or if she sent someone? What if she was holding Lucy hostage at that very moment?

Snow began to fall thickly from the sky above the river, although it was still fairly-warm weather everywhere else in the forest. A misty sort of white fog appeared, cutting them off from most of the nearest trees.

Lucy, by then, found herself collapsing, wet and breathless, on an icy slope in the middle of Charn.

At first, she shivered and almost lost all hope, but she saw, not too far away, the White Witch's caste. Her determination to find her friend returned, and she almost forgot altogether how cold and damp she felt. It was sort of easy to ignore the cough that started to rack her little body, almost like pretending she didn't feel ill by not giving it so much as a half-second's worth of thought.

I'm coming, Edmund, she thought, trudging through the deeper snow-banks over to where the path was a little easier to walk on, hang on, I'm coming to bring you back home to Cair Paravel-where you belong.

If the White Witch had not been so preoccupied with her anchored borders and the overly-sensible English girl who threatened to destroy her-and Charn-for ever, she would have known Lucy was coming and the poor innocent child's case would have been lost. As it was, if she knew from her looking-glass that there was someone coming towards the castle, she took it for one of her wolves or dwarfs or snow-ogres, or for her strongest winter wind, perhaps. It is likely, actually, that she thought she'd drowned Lucy as opposed to inadvertently letting her through the borders into Charn itself. Otherwise, there was no reason-or way-Lucy could have escaped all notice. Thankfully, as slim as her chances of success really were, she did.

Back at the river, Susan pondered over her options. On the one hand, she could try to find another doorway in, like the one Lucy had used. But, you see, the problem was there was no guarantee that such a door was not a trap. From Peter's blood-shot eyes alone, Susan could tell he was terrified that Lucy might be hurt, or captured, or even, horrid as the thought was, dead. On the other hand, if she did not come face-to-face with the witch and fight her, how was she supposed to defeat her? What of their hopes of bringing Charn to ruin by the borders? Were they dashed? And would Lucy and Edmund be harmed-if they weren't already?

In a flash, standing as still as the statue Tumnus would surely become if Queen Jadis won, Susan ran through everything Aslan had told her during their meeting. Every last word. Over and over again, she made her mind play them. Some bits did begin to sound rather like a broken record, but none properly stuck out.

Then there was one sentence, one that had seemed so unimportant that she'd barely given it the attention it deserved. For some reason she had not thought it meant Jadis at all; she had thought it was a metaphor. And, to be exact, she had thought herself very clever for 'figuring it out'. But, oh, she saw it now! It was not a metaphor at all!

 _Length of days with an evil heart is only length of misery; all get what they want, but they do not always like it_ ; that was what he had said, in his rich, golden, beautifully stern voice.

If Susan pushed aside the notion that she was so jolly clever and thought about it literally, what did it mean? If Aslan was speaking of the witch, then maybe that was his way of telling Susan how to defeat her. He had, after all, said she would figure it out.

"All get what they want, but they do not always like it," Susan whisper-recited, almost inaudibly, to herself. "What does Jadis want?"

The wind around them picked up, snowflakes swirled, laughter did echo this time, there was no doubt about it. Tumnus groaned. Ramandu's daughter, brave as she was, did shed a few tears of fear. Caspian and Peter were both at a loss.

"Jadis wants…" Susan murmured in a low voice, closing her eyes for a passing moment to think her very hardest. "…Jadis wants…" Her eyes shot back open. "Jadis wants the medallion!"

All eyes flickered over to her.

Not too far from where her feet currently were, the hole in the ice opened again; cold water twisted round and round the opening, taunting her.

Wasting no time now that she knew what she had to do, Susan unfastened the medallion from her neck and held it up by the chain over the opening.

"What's she doing?" Peter gasped.

"I, Susan Pevensie," she said loudly, nearly shouting, "in the name of Aslan, the great Lion of Narnia, son of the emperor-over-sea, do hereby order all the pain and suffering caused by Charn to come to an end." She prepared to let go of the chain. "Take back what is yours!"

Leaping forward, Peter grabbed onto her wrist. "Have you gone mad? If she gets the medallion back-"

"Trust me," Susan implored him, nearly weeping with emotion. "Please."

"Oh, Susan." He shook his head no, yet still began loosening his hold on her wrist. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Suddenly gleaming with the starlight it apparently still held within it after all, the medallion fell faster and faster, then landed in the water with a light _plop_.

Curious at this anti-climatic turn of events, Caspian came forward and peered down. It was a foolish thing to do, very foolish, but we won't hold it against him.

A flash of greenish-blue wafted up like misty smoke caught in a wind storm and knocked him backwards, so that he fell down and hit his head, becoming unconscious.

Susan and Ramandu's daughter cried out, "Caspian!"

Peter bit his lower lip so hard it bled to avoid crying out similarly.

The others were further back and hadn't seen as clearly, but they, too, gasped and were frightened. Had Susan guessed wrong? Would the witch have gotten the power she wanted now? Were they all doomed?

Cracks appeared all over the ice-encased lake, days and days worth of thawing began happening within seconds and minutes, and big white lilies started blooming everywhere.

"Caspian," Ramandu's daughter was at his side, lightly touching one of his checks. "Come on, wake up, I think it's over now."

He did not stir.

"Please wake up." She shook his arm, but nothing happened.

Leaning over him, she kissed his lips. To her surprise, he blinked and began to sit up.

"In the world where Susan came from," Caspian murmured, a little hoarsely, "they have a story about a king coming to a castle where everyone was laid-out in an enchanted sleep; and in that story, the enchantment held until he kissed the princess."

"Here," smiled Ramandu's daughter, "as you can see, it is a little different."

Peter and Susan exchanged relieved glances now that they saw that their friend was all right.

The next moment fear returned to them both as they remembered Edmund and Lucy.

"Lucy," said Peter, his eyes growing wide again. "Where is she?"

Susan shook her head; she didn't know.

At that very moment, Lucy had finally arrived at the castle door. She noticed, only vaguely, a slight change in the environment. The sun was a reddish colour now, seeming to be lower in the sky, and most of the snow appeared to be melting, revealing, if she'd thought to look closely, several old cobblestone paths.

Inside, the White Witch was no more. When the medallion had been returned, the witch had become trapped in her own looking-glass. She had shouted for Edmund to help her, and when he looked up from his puzzle, blank-eyed as ever, not yet realizing that his voice had returned along with the medallion, he, wordlessly, picked up the witch's wand and used it to smash the looking-glass to pieces.

Then, not understanding what was happening, or why he had just done that, and still feeling very, very cold in spite of the changes happening all around the outside of the castle, he had turned back to his puzzle. He still could not make it say 'eternity'. He was still not free.

The next thing he heard was a cry of, "Edmund!" and there were little arms round him and a face buried in his neck.

"Who are you?" he asked, speaking for the first time in quite a long while, nearly as surprised at the sound of his own voice as he was with the presence of the unknown visitor.

"Edmund!" she said, pulling away so that she could look him in the eyes. "It's me, Lucy! I've come to save you. You're coming home with me."

"I-I think I've seen you before," he said shakily. "I don't remember...I'm sorry."

"Oh, Ed!" she cried; and she noticed how different his hands and arms felt. "You're so cold…"

"Well, you're wet," he retorted, not too unkindly.

"Come on," said Lucy, wiping her runny nose on the back of her hand and sniffling lightly. "We've got to go, it's over now. They'll be terribly worried about us."

"Who?" Edmund blinked as though the thought of someone caring enough to worry about him had never crossed his mind before.

"Why, Peter and Susan and Caspian and Tumnus and the stars, of course! Oh, tell me you at least remember Susan and Peter, Ed! Or Caspian, you remember him, don't you? He said you stole his horse, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," said Edmund, grinning to himself.

The corners of Lucy's mouth turned up excitedly.

"…I did steal his horse," he sighed, remembering only that-as it had happened in Charn-and nothing else. "Very fast runner, that horse."

"Ed!" Her forming smile stopped half-way and turned down into a solid pout.

"I'm sorry," he said, his tone truly apologetic. "You seem very nice, but I can't go anywhere with you, I have to stay here."

"But why?"

"Because, I can't leave until I can spell the word 'eternity'." He motioned sadly over at the puzzle pieces. "I'm sorry."

Lucy leaned forward to study the pieces and the harder she stared, the more they seemed to be melting and merging together into a word. "It looks like you already did."

"Did I?" He glanced down and saw for himself, the word forming. "I did!" Turning back to Lucy, he beamed happily and his frozen black-and-blue cheeks began to thaw. They thawed even more when Lucy kissed them, and the warmer he became, the clearer his thoughts were.

"Let's go home," said Lucy, taking his hand to lead him out of the witch's castle for good.

He looked over his shoulder at the broken pieces of the White Witch's looking-glass, found that he wasn't at all sorry about what he had done, or that he was leaving. For, as you know, Charn had never been a good home for him, and his clearing mind was telling him of another castle called Cair Paravel, where things were different.

Looking back at Lucy, something struck him and he gasped, squeezing onto the hand that was already holding his. "Lucy!" He recognized her now, remembering her entirely.

She grinned at the recognition in his eyes and turned to the front doors they stood before. As she put her hand on one of them, while it kept the same shape, it took on the form of a rose bush with no thorns, and when they stopped out, they found they were in Narnia by a rushing river, Peter and Susan and the others anxiously waiting for them.

Peter ran over and flung his arms round them both. "Thank Aslan!"

"Hullo, Edmund," said Susan, approaching him.

"You were a real idiot for eating that apple, you know," Edmund told her, his left eye twitching into a slight wink.

She laughed and mussed his short dark hair the way his real mother might have done if she'd lived and he had not been stolen away.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm a little tired," he admitted.

"Well, come on, then," said Peter. "The curse is over, it's time to go home."

And everybody was overjoyed. Caspian had his arms around Ramandu's daughter's waist; Coriakin's hair was back to normal (except that he still had a beard, only it was shorter and silver, no longer white); Tumnus no longer looked frightened; and Lucy and Edmund were both so happy-faced you wanted to cry tears of joy if you looked at them for too long.

Everyone, that is, except Susan. Now that it was over, she began to feel a little grieved. She was thrilled that the curse of Charn was done with at long last and that the Narnians were free-hopefully for ever-but she was also mournful for herself.

Now, she thought glumly, Peter will go back to his normal life and marry the duke's daughter like he promised.

She tried to cheer herself up with the fact that she would be going back home to England-surely the Lion would let her go back to her own world since she'd done what he asked-and it worked to some extent, making the half-smiles she managed truly genuine, but, of course, she did not feel quite so much as the others did that they were all about to live happily ever after.


	19. Leaving Narnia

"That clearing, up ahead," said Peter to the others, Trumpkin and Tumnus leading the way, he himself stationed just behind; "it looks like the end of the trees."

"We're out of the forest at last!" cried Susan, forgetting how she'd been slightly dejected up till that point, trailing behind everybody else with her eyes downcast.

"Praise the Lion," muttered Caspian.

"Look!" said Lucy, pointing up.

There came a familiar winged creature that would have been alarming if they had not known who he was. Indeed, Trumpkin didn't know, so Peter had to warn him not to shoot an arrow at it-or, rather, him.

For Eustace Clarence it was; and as he alighted onto the ground in front of them, his own curse was ended. No longer was he a great dragon, he was only the puny boy Peter recognized from his dream. And he was not _any_ Eustace Clarence, indeed, it was Eustace Clarence _Scrubb_ -Susan's own lost cousin.

"Susan, this is-" Lucy started to introduce them (she didn't know they were related).

"Eustace!" Susan found that somehow she knew him without being told who he was, and she laughed half-light-heartedly and embraced him.

"Hey, I know _you_." Peter chuckled happily at seeing Eustace as a boy and not a dragon for the first time outside of a dream.

"I'm still waiting on that thanks for saving you all," he joked, winking.

For the next few moments everyone was merry and even a little silly, but when they had finished up, they suddenly became very somber; Aslan himself was approaching them. They had not heard him coming because his soft velveted paws made very little sound when they moved on the downy turf that surrounded the forest.

Lucy was the only one of the lot who did not seem grave, rather, she stood beaming; and Edmund was the only one who looked truly frightened, as if he felt he had done some horrible wrong to this wonderful Lion and that now he would get his just rewards for it.

"Peter," Aslan called the young man who had been the high king to him first.

"Here, Sir." Peter stepped forward.

"Now that you know the truth about yourself, do you feel very disappointed?"

He got the feeling that Aslan already knew his answer, but he answered truthfully anyway. "No, it's not how I thought it would be…but it's all right. I'm not disgraced by being the son of a star-and I'm not at all sorry to have a twin."

Aslan nodded. "Would you be willing to stand aside and let another take the throne you have unknowingly been holding and keeping safe for him?"

"Yes," said Peter, with only a few seconds of hesitation. "If it is your will, Aslan." He couldn't help peering hopefully over at Susan, thinking she might realize that if this really was what Aslan wanted, there was no reason they should not be together after all.

"Susan," said the Lion, calling her next.

"Aslan," she said, curtsying the best she could manage with sore legs that had been wandering the forest for so long.

"Well done, daughter of Eve, I am pleased with you." His dark-gold lips curled up into a cat-smile and Susan found she felt a little better than she had before.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe sooner," she admitted, feeling she must say this at least once.

"I know," said Aslan forgivingly. "But worry not, child, for you have done the very thing you were called into Narnia to do."

After this, Susan stepped aside, sensing that Aslan wanted to speak with someone else and was finished talking to her for the time being.

"Caspian and the daughter of Ramandu, step forward."

They came and Aslan blessed them both, saying that one day, very soon, they would be wed and that he himself would perform the ceremony for them. "And you, my dear," -to Ramandu's daughter- "will be queen of Telmar, co-ruling alongside your husband."

Next it was Lucy's turn and she rushed towards him as fast as her short legs would carry her. "Oh, Aslan, it is wonderful to see you again!" She buried her face in his mane and sighed contentedly before she pulled away to listen to whatever words he was about to say.

"Dear heart," said Aslan to Lucy. "Now it is time that you learned, just as your brother has, where you came from."

"Is," began Peter, "is she a star, too?"

"No," said Aslan. "Lucy is human through and through. In fact, the woman you believed yourself betrothed to, Peter, is her half-sister."

"But, Sir, the duke of North-Western Ettinsmoor never said anything about a missing child," Peter protested, feeling rather confused.

"I myself asked him not to," Aslan explained. "When Lucy was very young, she had another name, but no one can remember what it was because they never called her by it; they called her Little Red Cap-because of the cap of red velvet she was fond of wearing. I myself rescued her from the wolf who meant to kill her. And it was I who saw to it that Lucy would grow up in Narnia-where she belongs. For all of this, I had good reason."

When everybody had finished exchanging glances of amazement, all muttering things like, "Did you suspect…?", "Would you have ever thought…", and "Who knew?", Aslan turned his attention to Edmund.

"Edmund, come near to me."

He obeyed, his knees knocking together from fear, feeling much younger and smaller than he really was. This was it, surely the Lion was going to be very angry and…and…and, well, Edmund didn't know what would be done with him, but he was dreading it. Being raised as the son of the White Witch did not give one much security in the belief that others would take a liking to you or even spare you.

"You will be king of Narnia."

You could have knocked Edmund over with a feather. "What? Me? Why? What about Peter?" For, you see, he had been understanding precious little about what was going on, and had naturally assumed it had nothing whatsoever to do with him.

"You are the one Peter has been holding the throne for," Aslan announced. "You are not Edmund of Charn, you never were. You are King Edmund of Narnia, son of the late King Frank and Queen Helen."

"But," Edmund's voice faltered, "how can I be a king? I'm just a kid."

"Peter was little more than a child when he took your place for the protection of your country, you may return the favor." Aslan's voice, though his words were firm and a little strict, did not sound at all demanding or rough, merely explanatory. "What is more, you shall have good help. Good tutors will teach you the right way to rule over Narnia. Just remember, in time, you must learn to do it for yourself and to prove worthy of your place. It is no small matter, no game, not even always a welcome honour to be a king. There are good things, but there are also matters that no man should like to face-and these you must be the first to confront."

"Aslan," said Edmund, his voice steadying itself slowly but surely, "I don't know, but I think, maybe, after all the horrible things I've grown up seeing, I won't be so easily scared off."

"Very well," said Aslan, who Edmund now realized had actually been _smiling_ at him for he wasn't sure how long. "You have seen horrible things. But, remember, you were not the only one who suffered. The witch meant to replace you with a changeling and she stole this boy-" here he nodded over at Eustace "-away from his family-and world-and tried to have him die in your place as a baby. By some grave misstep, she failed in this-though not in stealing you away-and he was cursed to be a dragon more than half of the time."

"I say," said Edmund to Eustace. "I am sorry you suffered so on my account."

And of course Eustace told him not to mention it, that it was quite all right; he was plenty glad not to have been killed in his place, even if it had meant life as a dragon for so long.

"But, wait," Susan here interjected. "How can Eustace have been switched for Ed? They were born years apart."

"Time can flow differently in our old world, I think, Susan," Eustace told her. "I have discovered that much."

"In fairytales," Lucy added, "enchantments do often muddle up a person's age."

"I suppose that's it then?" Susan guessed, looking over at Aslan to see what their next move ought to be.

"One more matter." Here Aslan stared very hard at Edmund. "You, as king, are under an obligation that your stand-in promised while in your place."

Edmund winced, expecting it to be something terrible. But inwardly he swore to himself that he would face it as bravely as a true and good Narnian king ought to.

"You are betrothed to the daughter of the duke of North-Western Ettinsmoor and must marry her and make her your queen-for I always meant for her to assist in ruling over Narnia-when you come of age."

Aghast, Edmund couldn't help wrinkling his nose, glad as anything he would be too young to marry for at least a few more years. "I'm sure I'm not a coward, and I mean no disrespect, but…but isn't she awfully old for me? If she was at the right age to wed Peter, I mean?"

The whole Lion's body shook with laughter. "Ah, you're mistaken. Peter, you see, promised that the king of Narnia would marry the duke's daughter. It hardly matters which one, but I mean for you, Edmund, to take the younger."

"Lucy," Edmund realized, looking relieved. It mightn't be so horrible to marry her. If he had to have a wife, it would be better to have one he knew well and was friends with and could talk to than one who did nothing but stand still and look pretty. And there was no shame in having a wife who you knew would jump into the borders of a deadly country to safe your life, either, he had to admit.

Lucy, too, had no objection; and so they smiled shyly at one another, trying not to laugh.

Four days later, a proper coronation for Edmund was held at Cair Paravel. It was, they found, mid-summer, and so the days were long and all the windows were open, letting in sunlight and then, in the evening hours, the beautiful purple-and-pale pink colours of twilit dusk.

Anyone worth being there was invited and attended to show their respects. Coriakin and the rest of the star army, Ramandu, Roonwit, Tumnus, Trumpkin, Trufflehunter, Nikabrik, Duffle (and his brothers), Poggin, and even, it turned out, Maugrim-who had become a reformed character while most of the other wolves had perished with Charn's end (but that tale does not really come into this one and would be too long to explain here).

The mermaids were not invited and could not have come out of the water even if they had been, and so had to celebrate, if they wished, outside. Whatever ones among them that were good and pure of heart, or at least had respect for Aslan and for the future of Narnia, must have, for there was some singing to be heard coming from the sea, wafting up through the castle windows; but these were evidently of a very different sort than those who had tried to drown Susan.

Susan, Ramandu's daughter, and Lucy all had new gowns for the ceremony of which they were inordinately proud. Susan's was silver velvet with six gold-and-pearl buttons in the front and two jasper buttons at the cuffs of the billowy sleeves. Ramandu's daughter's was as pure white as a bridal gown with a satin blue sash round the middle (she late re-used it at her own wedding ceremony three weeks later in Telmar). Lucy's was a light sky-blue brocade and had hundreds of little diamond-coloured crystal beads sewn round the bodice. She had to be reminded many times by Susan not to pick and pull at these when she was feeling bored or else fidgety, but other than that, she wore it with a fair sense of propriety that was pleasing enough to on-lookers.

A scepter was put into Edmund's left hand-the golden lion-pommel hilt of Peter's own sword, Rhindon, which had once been King Frank's, was in his right-and a crown of silver set with rubies and diamonds was placed on his head. He said he didn't want to take Peter's sword, but the former high king told him that it was his right and that he couldn't explain it but somehow felt that, as for himself, he would not be needing a sword any longer.

That very night, after Aslan had left and the majority of the coronation feast was over, Susan went, on her own, into Peter's bedchamber and looked at the mirror that she had first fallen into Narnia through.

To her surprise, she saw, not her reflection but, rather, her own attic back home in England. She found she could not go through without the rings (which Peter still had), yet she could still see it, and it occurred to her that time difference or no time difference, she couldn't be quite certain that her parents wouldn't eventually come to worry about her. She thought about how England was the world she'd grown up in, the world she was born into. Narnia's world was wonderful; she knew that if she was to end up there she would be lucky, but she wasn't sure if she was supposed to.

The next morning she brought it up to Eustace at breakfast and asked if he wanted to go home to England.

At first he seemed slightly intrigued, though unsure and a mite skeptical, but as she started to describe what Alberta and Harold were like, he scowled and, becoming indignant, stated, "I don't want to return to _that_ blasted world!" He was resolved to stay behind.

"You won't go back, will you, Susan?" Peter asked cautiously, a little afraid of her response.

"Part of me wants to stay here," she admitted. "But…I don't know…perhaps…I wish there was a way to come back and forth at will."

"There isn't," Peter told her. "If you really want to go though, I suppose I should say goodbye to everyone. I will miss Lucy terribly."

"You'll…" Susan's eyes widened, "…you'll come back with me? To England?"

"Susan," he said, very seriously, "if you think after all we've been through that I'm going to lose you again, you're insane. If you're going back to live in your own world, then I'll be there with you every step of the way."

It was true; he was not betrothed, he was not a king, he had no obligation to anyone-he was free to come with her if he so wished it. Perhaps he had known, subconsciously, all along that Susan might want to go back; that could be why he'd no longer felt he would be needing a sword.

Alas, when Peter returned Susan's interlocked rings to her and they both stood before the mirror in his chamber, they discovered-to their great dismay-that they could not both go through. The rings, it seemed, would take one person (whoever was wearing the chain they dangled from round their neck) through, but the other could not come. This became apparent when they tried to hold hands and go through at the same time; they kept getting pulled apart like magnets that did not match up.

Tears welled up in Susan's eyes. She was beyond torn. Should she go back home to her parents and world, or should she stay with Peter?

"Susan," Peter spoke tenderly, embracing her tightly and holding her close. "Go on, don't worry about me. Just promise you'll wait."

"Wait?" she asked, swallowing hard.

"Wait for me to come." He kissed her forehead. "I promise, Susan, where ever you are-be it England or anywhere else, in any world-I will come to you. I'll find you no matter where you are."

"I promise," murmured Susan, her voice faltering and a little hoarse. "I love you."

"I love you, too." He kissed her again, this time pressing against her lips instead. "We'll see each other again soon, I'm sure of it."

"Goodbye, Peter."

"Goodbye, Susan."

And with one last glance back at him, she stepped through the mirror and found herself back in the attic where all her adventures had begun. For a moment, though she scolded herself inwardly for it very often, feeling quite stupid, she thought-as was her way-that she had only been dreaming. But as she looked down, she found she was still dressed in Narnian clothes, not her old nightgown.

For one passing moment, despite the fact that it was a bit faded and murky, she could still make out the dim shade of the chamber back at Cair Paravel in the looking-glass door of the wardrobe. She saw Peter wave to her and returned the gesture. Then he was gone and the looking-glass door was as ordinary as it had ever been.

It turned out that some time had passed after all, but not very much of it. It was only a few minutes after midnight.

Sighing forlornly, Susan stumbled through the attic until she found the way back downstairs and crept quietly to her bedroom, hoping she wouldn't run into her parents. It would be hard to explain her odd, other-worldly garments to them. She thought it was pointless to waste her mental strain on that, when it would be even more trying to explain Peter when he came-if he could.

Once her bedroom door was securely shut and latched behind her, she took off her fancy clothes and hid them under the floor-boards for the time being, tying them up in an old bolt of ugly puce fabric to keep them safe, both from dirt and from detection.

Slipping another nightgown (her old one and her dressing-gown were back in Narnia, she'd forgotten them there) over her head, she wrapped her fingers around the interlocked rings she'd brought from Mr. Ketterley what felt like such a very long time ago, and closed her eyes, committing everything that had happened since then to memory.


	20. Finale

It had been three and a half weeks-nearly a whole month-since Susan's adventures in Narnia, since she had destroyed Charn, and things had gone on in a very common-place manner.

There had, as of yet, been no word from Peter, and sometimes in the middle of the night she would wake up crying because she'd been dreaming about him only to find herself quite alone again when her eyes opened of their own accord. There were horrible moments when she wondered if perhaps something had gone wrong and he could not come, and, worse still, moments when she thought he had changed his mind and simply didn't want her any longer. Deep down, she felt that neither was quite true, trying to remind herself to be patient, but it was hard-going all the same.

She had, of course, being of a rather self-conscious disposition, not yet told her parents about Narnia or Peter or Aslan, but they did notice a change in her that could not be explained and, from time to time, worried at her vague, airy, unfulfilling answers to their concerned questionings.

Each day, with all the more vigor and forced determination on those when she was almost-once again-beginning to think none of it had really happened and it was a dream, Susan snuck up to the attic-smuggling the interlocked rings with her-and checked the wardrobe.

"It wasn't a dream," she would tell herself very firmly, nearly in a scolding. "And you won't forget, you _won't_. Even if you must go on, even if you must wait for ever, you won't forget."

And she would run her fingers lightly over the looking-glass door of the wardrobe and smile.

It so happened one day, as she was turning away, about to go back downstairs, she heard a thud coming from behind her. This was followed by a light, "Oof!"

Spinning around, she saw a blonde boy a year or so older than herself, sitting on the attic floor, brushing himself off. Clearly, he had fallen right through the looking-glass door into the room. The boy looked exactly like Peter, the former high king, only he was dressed in ordinary clothes that any English boy she met might be wearing instead of the tunics and doublets of the Narnian style.

"You know," he said, grinning up at her, "I was expecting a more enthusiastic welcome."

"Peter?" Susan's voice shook a little. "Are you really here?" She wanted to be sure she wasn't dreaming again.

He stood up, walked over to her, and slipped his arms around her waist. "I told you I would come."

"I've missed you," Susan whispered, convinced, now that she could feel his touch again-just as she remembered it, that this was really happening. "It's been nearly a month for me, how long was it in Narnia?"

"I'm not sure. I went looking for Aslan almost immediately after you went through, to ask him for help in following you. I lost track of time," Peter admitted.

Sighing happily, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, pulling as close as humanly possible into his grasp.

Now they never had to part from one another again.

* * *

"Andrew, I'll not take the blame for you this time, I'll not!" exclaimed an angry voice from the back room.

"Letitia," said Andrew Ketterley, looking up from a box of odds and ends that mostly seemed to be old rubbish, though he hoped to sell some of it for a fair-sized price all the same, and twisting his neck round over his shoulder to call back to her, "what seems to be the problem?"

"There is someone on the phone for you in regards to a pair of… _rings_?...you apparently sold to a young girl a month or so ago. I warned you most emphatically, Andrew, that I would not-"

"Now, now, then," said Mr. Ketterley, his tone surprisingly level considering how contrastingly cross the one shouting at him was, "just tell them we don't give refunds and let that be the end of it, that's a good gel, Letitia. Eh? Get to it then, dear."

"None of that!" screeched the voice. "None of that! You will come back here and take the phone yourself. I do not know why I stick up for you, brother, I do not. You ought to be ashamed to use me as you do."

Sighing heavily, Mr. Ketterley turned away from his box completely and went onto the back room. He picked up the receiver with the air of a king or president that has been interrupted in the middle of an important and strenuous meeting, in spite of the fact that he really was (and he'd have known this if he weren't so terribly vain) one of the _least_ important chaps you could possibly run into.

"Yes, hallo, what do you want?"

Andrew listened to the voice on the other end for a moment. "No, I don't know anything about magic rings…carried off your daughter into another world, you say? Eh, what's that? Some boy up and followed her back into this one? Well, you know fellers now-a-days, do anything to impress a lady….uh-huh, well, I'm sorry, it's buyer beware, I can't be held responsible for what is clearly a family problem…well, there is no need to use words like that, sir! Look here-Mr. Pevensie, is it? I'm sorry, but this store can be of no further service to you. Good-bye."

"Well?" As soon as he had hung up the receiver, Andrew turned round to see his sister standing there with her hands planted on her hips.

"All a misunderstanding, my dear, quite cleared up," he lied, much too quickly, patting her on the shoulder. "I'll get back to minding the counter now."

When he returned to the counter-and his large box of junk-he found the back of the store most impertinently surrounded by a small group of school children, looking around in a very indelicate manner for something or someone.

"Come on out, Pole," said one of _Them_ (a nasty-faced, mean-looking girl in a gray jerky and pale rose-coloured wool skirt) tossing a pig-tail over her shoulder and rolling her eyes. "We know you're hiding here somewhere."

Andrew did not like children very much, and he liked the look of these even less than most because some of the boys had dirty faces and fingers, which made him think they might smudge his merchandise and cost him money.

So he turned them all out, ignoring their protests of, "Unfair!" and "What about Pole?"

"Are they gone?" said a timid voice. A girl's head peeked out from behind a lopsided bookshelf in the corner.

Andrew's shinny eyes narrowed in on her. They didn't soften, but they didn't hold quite the same distain as they had for the others. This was because she appeared to be a light-footed, swift sort of girl-the kind that is good at moving in and out of small spaces without trouble and is unlikely to bump into things and knock them down or break them.

"Are you Pole, then?"

"Jill Pole," she corrected, coming out all the way. "It's my surname, you see."

"And why were you hiding from those children?"

She shrugged her shoulders and pulled a small dust-bunny out of a strain of her shoulder-length hair. "They like to chase me around and call me names and…and, well, all kinds of things."

"I see." The selfish Andrew Ketterley had already lost interest in a situation any good, kind, thoughtful grown-up would have attempted to be consoling in regards to; and his nose was back in that dratted box.

There seemed to be something small in the left side of the box that he could not reach. He removed a smallish framed painting that had been in the way, pressed up against the cardboard haphazardly till then, and put it on the counter. It was of a great sailing ship with a tall gleaming mast and a single purple sail, rolling along a beautiful green-blue sea.

"Oh, what a pretty ship!" said Jill, when she saw the picture facing up.

"It is?" Mr. Ketterley's eyebrows went up and he looked at her more intently, now that she was a potential customer and all. "I mean…of course it is! And it's yours, Pole-girl, for only fifteen pounds."

"Fifteen!" scoffed Jill, aghast.

"I meant…ten…"

"Ten?" Jill's arms folded across her chest.

"How much pocket money have you got on you?"

"Three pounds, exactly."

"Sold! But, remember, this is a sale price! One time only."

Once upon a time there was a girl called Jill Pole, and she fell through a painting into Narnia and met a changeling boy who had once been cursed to live life as a dragon.

But that's another story altogether. Except for the ending; that's probably one and the same. They all-Susan, Peter, Edmund, Lucy, Caspian, Ramandu's daughter, Eustace Clarence, and Jill Pole-lived happily ever after.

Hopefully.

Because, well, you know how it is with those older, darker fairytales.

-The End-


End file.
